#Part XXIII

[randomfoggytiger]

The Scully Family In-Depth (Part XXIII): Loss, Second Chances, and In Absentia

We begin the countdown to the end of the Scully Family series!

Today, we tackle a broad array of subjects: complicated familial dynamics, well-intentioned meddling, and conflicted yearnings.

A VERY MERRY MISCOMMUNICATION

The episode opens on Bill and Tara’s Christmas display-- specifically, Tara herself: great with child and jubilation. When her husband unlocks the front door, she rushes over to greet her guests, beaming under Maggie’s effusive, “Look at you!” and Dana’s “You’re huge.”

“Sorry about the digs, Mom, I know you hoped you’d never have to spend another night in base housing,” Bill pipes up, displaying a natural conscientiousness. 

“Are you kidding? This is wonderful.” 

It’s Scully who is taken aback by the obvious: “It’s the exact same layout as our old house.”  

Her brother nods, half amused, “Well, that’s the Navy for you.” 

“Bill tells me, Mom that you’re going to be staying in your old room; and the nursery’s going to be in--” Tara briefly pauses, looking back at her husband for confirmation, “--Dana and Melissa’s room.” 

He and Tara quite obviously believe the house will delight their guests; and are just as obviously delighted with it themselves. It seems their move here is rather recent (or recent enough that Maggie hasn’t flown out to throw a housewarming party, yet) and kept as secretive as possible from their family. 

This points to a few things:

Bill seems exultant to live once again on familiar turf-- a doppelganger childhood home-- and to grow his own child up in that replica. 

Tara is overjoyed to take part in that dream with him, and build their life in a copy of the happy memories of his childhood. Meaning, the stories he must have told about his growing up years were tender and fun and nostalgic; and she wanted their child to have a similar happy experience. 

Both Bill and Tara are proud of their cookie-cutter house; but are more proud that they not only kept it as a surprise but are able to shock Maggie and Scully with it. This points to a generosity of spirit: that, although celebrating their first Christmas together as parents, they still took the time to plan around their extended family.

Yet, amidst their happiness, Bill stops to recognize that his mom isn’t a fan of base housing; and Tara to assure her mother-in-law that she has the rights to her own room and familiar comforts. 

As rampageously happy as the two are to share this experience with Maggie and Scully, they miss a few saddened moments: Dana uncomfortably smiling over sleeping in the room she used to share with her dead sister, and Maggie lagging behind to process her losses in this replica Christmas house. 

Scully, however, notices that her mom is hanging back; and she stops her ascent upstairs to check in: “Mom? You okay?”

“Oh, yeah”, Maggie brushes aside, turning from the tree. “Just thinking about your Dad. And Melissa,” she adds as she sweeps by and up the stairs. It would seem both Scully women have the same determination as their hosts: contribute to an impeccable family holiday. While husband and wife think that’s fitting up rooms to reignite nostalgia, mother and daughter think that's setting aside their unease at these reminders-- i.e. getting over themselves-- so Christmas won't be spoiled.

Scully is stopped from following the family up the stairs by a phone call: an unmarked woman’s voice-- Melissa’s. 

“Dana.”

“Yes, I’m sorry, who is this?”

“Dana. She needs your help.”  

It’s not here (as I first assumed) that Scully panics, running up the stairs and insisting she heard her late sister’s voice and insisting Bill drive her to a random location. But panic is present as she dials up San Diego’s FBI extension and insists they trace the call; and bewildered panic is there as she arrives at the scene, Bill chauffeuring her in his car.

It’s a tiny but important detail about their relationship: Scully hasn’t shared with her brother why she needs to visit a stranger's address, doesn’t even tell him why when they arrive at a crime scene. But he supportively drives her over and patiently wait outside while she loiters in, begs for information, and sifts through the details the local force gives her. 

After she retreats (after she sees Emily Sim-- which will be discussed in a future post), she rejoins him outside; and Bill quietly asks, “Dana, what’s going on? They’re joking that you got a call from a dead woman.” 

This is interesting: either the police are loose-lipped chatters near unauthorized crime scene gawkers or Bill is rife with intelligent, circumspect behavior: 

Bill Scully knew exactly what to say to pry details from the investigation team; or

Bill Scully quietly and nonchalantly listened in on the other cops’ conversations, enough to know that his sister was talking with the detective about a phone call from beyond the grave. 

While not particularly earth-shattering, it’s a cool little insight into his character. 

At his gentle prodding-- and Bill is gentle, bending down and speaking softly (so different from but not dissimilar to Mulder’s methods)-- Scully opens up: “I thought it was a dead woman-- just not the one in there. I know it’s not possible, Bill, but it sounded just like her. Our sister.”

Bill’s freezes, unable to process this information. 

“Melissa,” Scully further clarifies. 

We’re not shown Bill's reaction-- or Scully’s reaction to his reaction-- instead swinging immediately over to the dinner scene. But that in itself is incredibly telling: both siblings are forced to address Melissa’s absence… and both siblings put it behind them as quickly as possible. Even more telling is the fact that Bill treats his sister with nothing but compassion this episode and the next, despite the direct ties between her work and their sister's death. It speaks to a largeness of character: despite being a bully (he was as a child, he was to Mulder, he can be-- though he tries to temper it-- with his sister), he never held Melissa’s death against his youngest sister. He is just and he is fair... in this judgment, least.

Their father and Bill and Scully (and possibly Charlie) all served their country; and with that service came duty and responsibility and danger. Melissa was a casualty to that service, just as their father’s crew members and many other innocent civilians were (or might have been) casualties in war. Bill himself could become a casualty to a future conflict or could fail to prevent other innocent lives from becoming casualties themselves. The fact that Bill understands and does not hold Scully responsible for Melissa’s death-- despite what his little sister could believe herself-- is an incredibly mature, nuanced take that I’m glad replaced the horrendous, stilted, one-sided perspective Memento Mori almost made canon (post here.) 

At dinner, Bill and Tara and Maggie are quietly conversing amongst themselves-- lightly catching up on neighbor or family gossip, I presume-- while Scully sits withdrawn and anxious. Before she gets up to leave, we get a glimpse of Bill and Tara’s comfortable interactions: he passes the food her way, without thought, and waits for her to grab her portion patiently. It takes no effort from him to be considerate to people he likes, which we can chalk up to his mother’s training growing up (e.g. post here.) 

Scully, visibly uncomfortable, leaves the Hallmark moment to call up her wayward partner (who jumps into frame in a Scrooge sleeping cap); but, despite a desperate need for reassurance or help or comfort, she hangs up the phone without speaking and returns to the table. This, here, proves that-- while Scully has made progress-- opening up to others is still a challenge for her. 

Which is desperately sad in hindsight: A Christmas Carol and Emily force Scully past her own barriers-- to admit her infertility to Maggie, to fight against her mother’s staunch insistence that Emily is not Melissa’s child, to attempt to defuse Bill’s suppositions, to beg for custody of her daughter, to accept her need for Mulder on this case. And to unfortunately feel that it was all for nothing: Emily dies; and Scully resurrects distance between herself, Mulder, and her family once again. 

She returns to the table, still ill at ease; and another dynamic from the cancer arc resurfaces: Bill notices that something’s wrong-- “Everything okay?”-- first, which then draws Maggie’s attention to her daughter. Again, this points to a keen observational ability on Bill’s part (which I’ve discussed here, and in his Personality Typing post here): he is able, almost without effort, to see through his sister’s disguises; but is, unfortunately, not able to translate his observations fluidly-- unlike Mulder. 

An interesting thought: if this be the case, it's easy to see why he hates Mulder so completely. He intuits that Mulder can see through Scully, as well (after observing him sitting by Scully’s bedside, kissing her hand, and advocating for his own form of treatment), but remains convinced that Mulder uses this to his advantage-- in effect, tricking her loyalty and pressing her pain points to keep her close to the work; and, selfishly, close to him. But, again, Bill can’t read people completely correctly: he senses the right emotion but miscalculates its underlying reasons. Because of this, he can sense his sister’s true feelings (“You think you can cure yourself”/”Is everything alright?”) and Mulder’s true feelings (“Was it worth it?”) and his mother’s true feelings (“You know what this is doing to Mom?”), but doesn’t temper those feelings with nuanced, mature perspective-- namely, he doesn’t try on other people’s shoes.This comes back to bite him: as much as he wants to help-- and he does-- Bill can only blunder around inelegantly while stepping-- ironically-- on pain point after pain point. 

Tara accidentally interrupts her husband’s quiet prodding with a loud exclamation: the baby kicked. Scully, alert (and slightly panicked) realizes it’s a false alarm; and is then trapped in a situation where everyone but herself is embracing the moment. Maggie, Tara, and Bill are all smiles as one parent chatters about her excitement and the other reaches his hand over naturally to feel his child move. 

“You had boys and girls-- so which one kicked more?” Tara asks; and Maggie responds fondly, “Oh, I had some pretty tough little girls”, while turning to catch Scully’s eye: an echo of her “You were always the strong one” in Memento Mori (post here.) 

Scully doesn’t respond, looking quietly from her mother back to her sister-in-law, eyebrows scrunching in pain as Tara cheerily rambles on about motherhood: “You know what? I can’t believe I’m about to say this-- as big and fat as I am now, I can’t wait to have more. This is our baby, our son. It kinda gives everything new meaning.”

At this, Maggie looks over to share the moment with Scully… and notices her daughter’s fallen face. Her son was onto something, after all. 

Speaking of Bill, at his wife’s closing statement-- “I can’t help but think life before now was… less. Just a prelude”-- he looks pleased as punch: a sentiment he obviously shares with her. Bill, the big, traditional family man; and Tara, the big, traditional family woman-- they’re suited to each other; and deliriously happy. However, he’s too shy or self-conscious to say it out loud, smiling at his wife before catching most of that smile back when Maggie happily locks eyes. It could be because he perceives an outward expression of tender emotion to be contrary to his masculinity-- an effect he and Scully took from their father-- or because he just feels giggly and googly-eyed and vulnerable over this new emotion. Either way, he clamps down on it as best he can… which isn’t a lot.

Afterwards, Maggie joins Scully in the kitchen, both of them pitching in to clean the dishes-- an exact mirror, three years later, of the last Christmas the two shared with Captain Scully. (As an aside: Scully washing dishes with her manicured, professional suit sleeves is so… Scully that it almost made me chuckle.)  

“What’s the matter?” her mother prods, refusing to let the issue go despite her daughter’s “Nothing.” Hand on her hip, she stares Dana down while the other woman turns aside, purposefully avoiding eye contact and sighing. 

Scully tries to shake the interrogation away with a half-truth, plopping a plate down roughly and turning defensively to get the matter over with: “Mom, I’m very happy for Bill and Tara.”

“You don’t seem to be.” 

The truth of that statement cracks through her defenses; and, after a momentary pause (where she looks to the side, up, and down-- like all the Scullys do when facing intense emotion), she gives up, sighing, “Oh, Mom.” Pausing for another long spell to pull her feelings together, she confesses, “Several months ago, I learned as a result of my abduction-- of what they did to me-- that I cannot conceive a child.”

Maggie is shocked and grieved; and immediately scoops her daughter up in a hug, knowing she needs it. Scully, like in Memento Mori, stands still: trying to cast off her own emotions by becoming the bearer up of others’ pain. 

“I’m so sorry,” her mother consoles. 

“It’s okay,” she rejoins-- voice vulnerable, cracked, young: so like the voice of Season 1 Scully that we know she is cut to the quick over this news. Her eyes begin to water and her face begins to crumble: and this is interesting because it shows she has still clung to the emotional growth of Redux II, not (yet) sliding back into complete, stone-walled distance. “I just never realized,” she continues, a vulnerability from her deathbed woven through her words, “how much I wanted it until I couldn’t have it.” 

This is the second time Scully's allowed herself to be completely open with her family (the first being Redux II.) And as hurtful and frightening as this vulnerability might be, Maggie is rewarding that openness with comfort and support; which, in turn, helps Scully open up that much more later on. 

The scene transitions to the nursery where Scully is sleeping-- the famed replica of her and her sister’s childhood bedroom-- surrounded by infantile toys and furniture. It’s here that her dreams begin to be plagued with memories and premonitions, nightmares of her (as yet unknown) child.

In her first dream, little Scully bursts in through the door with Bill in hot pursuit. He is in full bullying mode, threatening to turn the wild rabbit she rescued into stew-- and while he is obviously over-exaggerating to get a rise out of his gullible baby sister, it sets her ablaze in righteous fury: “No, you’re not!” she yells, pushing him backwards. Still, when he retreats, Scully doubts her abilities, yelling, “You’re not going to find him. …Bill!” as if she can call her brother back and reason with him. 

It’s not news that Bill was a bully and they had a sometimes turbulent relationship: in Gethsemane, she fondly recalled one of their arguments to a (presumable) family member before his arrival, regaling (with glee) how she either maneuvered or pushed him down the stairs. Still, these squabbles didn't break or deeply affect their relationship: she hung out with him and Charlie during her tomboy days, and the two brothers chipped in one year to surprise her with a bb gun (posts here and here.) What I find interesting is that Bill could see through her even then; and that, while Scully tried to put up a brave front, he never seemed to buy it.

But that brings up another valuable point: Scully believes she’s gotten away with a false front (post here); but in reality? No one-- not her mother, not her father, not her sister, not her brother, not her partner, not even her boss-- is fooled by her pretenses. Scully herself believes she’s being incognito when she’s painfully transparent; and that aspect-- her inability to lie believably-- is coded deeply into her character (and was one of the reasons Gillian Anderson was frustrated that Chris Carter hadn’t told her Scully was in on Mulder’s Redux I collusion.)

(Also, as another side note: I know they couldn’t direct the little girl to mimic Gillian’s faces, but the casting crew were incredible: they picked one who made an identical expression naturally. Look at that face! It’s Scully’s when faced with horror, anxiety, or fear.)  

Little Scully sneaks down to the basement where she pulls out a large, tin storage container; and, unfortunately, finds a very dead rabbit inside. After staring silently in horror, she looks back at the stairs and sees Emily. The dream, then, does something interesting: the camera shoots back to young Scully to show her unnaturally blank face, leaving us to conclude this moment has bled in with current Scully’s processing unconscious: 

Scully recalls the moment when she accidentally killed an animal; yet later, she also purposefully kills a snake (after disobeying her father’s orders.) After each incident, she is horrified, but it’s not until she makes an active decision to take a life that the weight of her guilt comes crashing down. While terrified after finding the dead rabbit-- and feeling the horror of it years later-- the cost of her actions hadn’t sunk in. This means she was too young, at the time, to fully understand or grapple with what she’d done; and it’s only now, in hindsight, that the weight of this moment is oozing inward. 

Despite the dead rabbit and the dead snake, Scully joined medical school to study dead bodies. Knowing Scully’s mentality, how much of that was penance or morbid curiosity before it became her preferred calling? Death itself seems to spook, not intrigue her (post here); and finding answers to its causes soothes her worries and gives her peace. So, if that be the case, a fear of death-- or her actions contributing to a death-- would, perhaps, lead her to seek out a way to control it: interpreting, understanding, and translating Death in terms that are concrete and immutable. Hence, her career choice.  

Emily appears on the stairs in her floral onesie, blankly looking down on young Dana while clutching the railing. Scully, then, is tying her neglect of this case-- of boxing away this little stranger as an unfixable tragedy-- in with the preventable death of her rabbit. Which is even sadder, in hindsight, because her own unconscious was whispering that this child was doomed to a terrible end; and her guilty, self-conscious reflex was stating that it would be her fault.

She wakes up at this moment to a second phone call: Melissa again; and this points to four other conclusions: 

Emily Sim and Melissa are inextricably linked: either Melissa’s second phone call-- which Scully would have heard, though she hadn’t woken up yet-- was what triggered her dream appearance, or her appearance in Scully’s dreams triggered Melissa’s phone call. 

It makes sense why Scully ties a connection between her late sister and this little girl, and ends up believing her to be Melissa’s daughter. 

The truth, however, is a touch more complicated: Melissa Scully functions as the voice of Scully’s conscience-- more accurately, as its advocate, helping her sister to tune into and listen to it clearly. We see this exemplified by their dynamic in One Breath (post here) and The Blessing Way (posts here and here); and that hasn't stopped with her death. 

Melissa is advocating for Emily because she is a byproduct of Scully, not because Emily is a byproduct of herself. She is protecting her niece because she has always protected her sister. 

Scully wakes and answers her cell phone, overwhelmed when her sister's voice echoes over the line a second time.

“She needs your help,” Melissa repeats. 

“Who is this? Why are you doing this?”

“Go to her.”

So Scully does, at nearly three in the morning; and is, again, turned away by Mr. Sim. She doesn’t let the matter drop this time, booking it to the local police station and stirring Det. Kresge up to reopen the autopsy investigation. There she finds a picture of Emily that is identical to one of young Melissa… which brings up another set of observations. 

The child on the staircase in her memories was likely Melissa-- her shadow since childhood. 

The dream, however, changed it to Emily, either creating connections supernaturally or strengthening the ones she’d made unconsciously after catching a glimpse of the little girl in the Sim house. 

Bill has family photo albums in his house. The one Scully opens looks like an original, not a copy, with her mother's handwriting printed neatly inside. Perhaps these photos were mostly of his own childhood-- around the world, in Japan, and (presumably) before Scully was born-- and perhaps he was given this for safekeeping sometime after Paper Clip. With Melissa dead and Bill and Tara building a home of their own, Maggie probably thought they’d want this album for themselves. Scully, perhaps, probably even made copies for her mother and herself before it was shipped off, since she knew exactly where to look to find that particular picture of her late sister. 

I also have a personal theory: Bill Scully later reveals he has a photograph of Melissa that was taken during the months his little sister was abducted. He never shared this with Scully-- perhaps because he assumed it would dredge up bad memories (another indication of his gentler personality: not wanting to hurt her with reminders. And, of course, another indication of his meddling protectiveness.) But the fact that Missy had given it to him, had possibly let him take it while she was off-the-grid traveling up and down the West Coast, speaks volumes to Bill’s motivations. He has deep wounds regarding Melissa, too; and guards her memory fiercely, albeit silently. Her loss is harder for him to talk about than his own father-- he was even originally written to resent his youngest sister for “causing” Melissa’s death (though that scene was rightfully deleted and his character reworked, thank goodness.) 

After Scully finds out Emily Christine Sim was adopted, she calls up Mulder’s FBI contact (Danny, the basement gnome)-- not Mulder himself-- and asks him to send Melissa Scully's PCR results to San Diego, where she is: effectively keeping her partner out of the loop. Despite their history, Scully is alienating herself and her struggles again: perhaps because, deep down, she is afraid of what Mulder will puzzle together with her abduction, a dead sister, and this adopted girl. 

Without intending to, she falls asleep once more and is caught up in another nightmare: herself as a child, holding her father’s hand, while walking down the aisle to pay their respects to an open casket. As she approaches, the casket leaks water and blood; and after peering over the side, the body of Mrs. Sim is revealed-- and opens its eyes. Stumbling back, she realizes the hand she is holding is not her father’s: it’s Mr. Sim’s. But as he opens his mouth, Bill’s voice speaks instead: “Dana?”

Scully is roused violently from sleep, and comes face-to-face with her brother’s worried, bemused expression. 

Again, she dreams of death. 

Again, she dreams of death connected to Emily. 

Again, she dreams she must helplessly watch tragedy unfold. 

Up to a point, these dreams can be dismissed as her reality bleeding (heh) into fantasy-- the second phone call reminding her unconscious of Emily, Bill speaking through Mr. Sim-- but Scully doesn't give this line of reasoning a first or second thought. Why?

And just as her unconscious starts to turn over these complicated emotions, reflection is snatched away by outside interference. 

(As an aside, this episode proves that, if anything, Scully is a light sleeper; which also proves that Mulder is a quiet and sneaky dude, slipping in and out of her perimeters without setting off her sensory detectors.)

Bill watches her try to pull herself together, asking in feigned nonchalance, “This where you stayed the night?”

“Yeah,” she affirms, feigning nonchalance herself, “some of it.” Remembering her research, Scully quickly checks then closes her laptop, unwilling to share her suspicions with anyone just yet.  

“It’s supposed to be a vacation.” Bill is annoyed but trying to hide it-- and, while it isn’t his place to dictate how Scully spends her time, he does have a point (or half of one.) He sees Scully’s dedication to her work as dedication to her partner; and probably suspects that Mulder is putting her up to this. Yet, despite his abhorrence for the man or his methods, Bill never outright scolds Scully for her inattentiveness, and does try to have patience with her odd behaviors. Still, his annoyance is hard to extinguish; and he asks, “Whatcha working on that's so important?” to better understand why she’s ducking and dodging. 

Scully, once again, ducks his attempt. “Just, uh, unfinished business.”

Seeing that they’re at an impasse, he switches topics: “So, you up for joining us this morning?”

“Yeah, I’ve, I’ve,” she stumbles, working through a plan in her mind, “got a little work to do. Can I join you guys later?”

Bill scoffs, lightly, trying to maintain an upbeat rather than imposing attitude. “How are you gonna get around?”

“I’ll, I’ll rent a car.” 

He watches her go, good naturedly exclaiming, “Alright-- lunch!” When she doesn’t respond (and continues stepping away), he adds, “I’ll hold you to that!” She, again, doesn’t comment; and he lets her go, trying to shrug off their interaction with a glance at his newspaper. 

After a long day investigating shaky leads, she arrives back at Bill’s with the PCR results in hand. Right after discovering the similarities between her sister and Emily’s DNA-- reacting with shocked, bittersweet tenderness-- Maggie appears, catching her daughter in the thralls of discovery. 

“Dana? Are you alright?”

Immediately, Scully looks down, masking her demonstrative expression; and her mother sighs, changing the topic to other pressing matters.  

“It’s 2 o’clock in the morning-- where have you been all day?” Maggie scolds, shuffling forward in exasperation. “We were expecting you for lunch.” 

Now it’s Scully’s turn to sigh: this can’t be put off. “Mom. Sit down.”

Maggie complies, head in her hands: another round of bad news from Dana. 

“The woman who committed suicide--” she begins, letting us know that Scully and Bill had previously shared details of the case with Maggie and Tara, “has an adopted daughter. A three-year-old named Emily. I got a sample from Emily’s blood; and I had the lab run a test on her DNA. It’s called a PCR test. This,” she continues, handing the evidence over to her mother, “is Emily’s. And this… is Melissa’s, which we ran during her murder investigation.”

Scully’s face is tortured, her head bent-- an expression of utmost struggle and vulnerability (post here.) “They match.”

Shaking her head in disbelief, her mother asks, “What does it mean, ‘they match’?”

“It means… that this little girl Emily… is Melissa’s daughter.” 

Maggie looks up in disbelief. “It’s not possible.”

“You can’t deny that there’s a remarkable resemblance.” 

“Melissa was three-years-old when this picture was taken, she was practically a baby,” Maggie snaps, eyes flashing. “All kids can look the same at that age.” 

“Mom, it’s uncanny. Emily looks exactly like Melissa. That’s why I order the PCR test-- because her face may change, but her DNA can’t!”

“And that test is accurate?” Mrs. Scully presses, even angrier. 

“There is a 60% chance that Melissa is Emily’s mother. I’m gonna order a more comprehensive test-- an RFOP. It’ll take a couple of days, and then we’ll be sure.”

“Oh, I’m already sure--,” Maggie denies; and the root of her denial comes to the fore: “--your sister didn’t have a baby, she would have told me.”

“Mom. Remember about four years ago Melissa took off? She traveled up and down the West Coast-- we didn’t know where she was half the time.”

“You’re saying she was pregnant and she didn’t want us to know?”

“That was 1994. Emily was born that November. She could have given her up for adoption and none of us would have ever known.” 

Suddenly, Maggie is struck with another idea, softening under Scully’s insistence. “Dana, listen to me. I know what you’re going through.”

“Mom--” snaps Scully, hurt that her motives are being called into question. “This has nothing to do with what I’m going through.” But still, she does not offer further clarification-- does not tell her mother that she, too, is having premonitory dreams (post here.) Because, really, this is about what Scully is going through-- not solely her infertility, of course, but also her memories, remission, second chance at life, and (misplaced) guilt-- and she can’t wholly refute or deny her mother's claims.

When Maggie explains, “It has happened to me-- when your father died”, she loses ground on her conviction, doubting her instincts. It’s what Melissa warned her against in The Blessing Way-- “You’ve lost touch with your own intuition!”-- and what she tried to help her see and understand when Scully was doubting her choice to join the FBI. It’s what she finally learns, four years after her sister’s death, in all things (post here.) 

“It was a long time before he left me,” Maggie admits as her daughter struggles with confronted tears. This is a sore spot for both of them; but while Maggie has moved on-- “before he left me”-- Scully still struggles with echoes of the painful past. She cannot forget or let go as easily. “I saw him in my dreams. The phone would ring; and just for a moment, I was sure it was his voice. And, and you’re doing the same thing with Melissa-- you’re seeing her in this child. But that does not make this child my granddaughter.”

During this speech, Scully has been struggling with denial, doubt, tempted belief; and at her mother’s last words-- “We’re still connected to them, Dana, even after they’re gone”-- she tears up, conflicted. 

There are many, many points to consider in this conversation: 

Maggie’s nature is just as confrontational as Bill’s, but she’s raised her son to (mostly) butt out of business not belonging to him. 

Despite Melissa’s black sheep ways and hard-to-swallow beliefs, Maggie remains convinced her daughter would have told her if she’d been pregnant. And she's correct.

Maggie would have (per her own expressions of hurt at this possible exclusion) embraced a granddaughter out of wedlock. This falls in line with her first two children being conceived before marriage (if the show's wonky timeline is to be believed), her undogmatic support of Bill and Tara’s IVF pregnancy, and her excitement over the birth of her second grandson, William.

Scully reveals how closely knit she and Maggie were (and are): “Remember about four years ago Melissa took off? She traveled up and down the West Coast-- we didn’t know where she was half the time” couples the anxiety, worry, and frustration of Melissa’s disappearance in with her mother and herself. We've seen this closeness demonstrated in The Blessing Way’s deleted scene (post here) when Melissa's arrival ended the personal conversation between Maggie and her youngest daughter.

Scully is still struggling with trusting her own instincts, and will continue to do so until all things. And, as befits her pre-established pattern, she leaps into decisive change then begins to doubt and second guess her intuition and choices (post here.) 

Scully dreams, this time of a Christmas long past.

She and Melissa sneak down to the tree; and while she loudly exclaims, “Look at all the presents!”-- betraying her rapture over receiving gifts-- it’s her sister who shushes her (“Dana, be quiet; they’ll hear us.”) Grabbing a large box-- another peek at her gift goblin side-- she excitedly whispers, “This one’s for me!” Again, Melissa checks her: “You wish. That’s for Billy, you dope.” The girls continue rifling around-- Scully still amped over (supposedly) finding a Hotel California record, Missy still shushing her-- until they find their cross necklaces; and it’s then that Maggie appears from the shadows (“You don’t have to shake it, Dana. You can open those now”) and sits beside them.

While Scully is awed by her present, Melissa is ambivalent, politely thanking her mother but not really responding to Mrs. Scully’s speech: “Your grandmother gave me a cross just like that when I was about your age. It means God is with you, and will watch over you wherever you go.”

When she looks at her mother in thanks, younger Dana sees her current self in Maggie’s place. 

A few takeaways: 

Melissa is the ringleader, it appears, in this mischief making venture. While she is the older sister (and, therefore, has more bossing rights), she seems more aware of the danger of getting caught than Scully. 

Scully, in each of her flashbacks, seems to be a second mate to mischief makers: breaking their father’s shooting rules with her brothers and sneaking down the stairs on Christmas morning with her sister. She is already drawn to rebellion, even at a young age; and will soon begin to flirt here and there with striking out on her own-- smoking her mother’s cigarettes on the porch or describing her parents’ opposition to the FBI as "they though it was an act of rebellion." That streak continues with “other fathers”, kicking back against her superiors in defiance or shoving off Mulder’s ‘restrictions’ whenever she feels unappreciated. 

Melissa already seems detached from her mother’s beliefs, and is (most likely) only a year or two (or three or four) away from rescinding her faith. 

Scully, however, hangs onto Maggie’s every word: a child wholeheartedly devoted to hero worship-- one who trusts so implicitly that she ends up doubting her own opinions and beliefs. 

Scully’s necklace is markedly longer than the one she wears in canon. This presents us with one of two theories: that Maggie gifted her another one for her birthday, as she said in Ascension; or that Melissa gave her her hand-me-down when she left the faith. 

Scully loves presents. Loves. (Which works out, because Mulder loves to give them.) And Hotel California, apparently. 

The Revival was warned that Scully would not look good with this type of straight, flat bob. And yet, it persisted. 

Scully, again again, ties another dream into Emily: this time her own motherhood, gifting her younger self-- or her dream self’s daughter-- a personal family tradition. 

It’s Tara who wakes her up.

“Dana? I’m sorry,” she begins, her choice of words implying that she’s aware of Scully’s late night, “there’s a detective here to see you?”

When Scully descends, Tara is chopping food for breakfast, Maggie is serving Det. Kresge some coffee, and Bill is nowhere to be seen. He was awake early yesterday, so it’s natural to assume he’s already up and out-- maybe last minute preparations for their party later today? 

As she and Kresge move aside to privately chat, Tara and Maggie send them concerned peeks every so often. 

Of course, Scully ends up leaving. 

I want to touch on Emily Sim very briefly in this post:

After Mr. Sim is arrested, Scully hurries through the house looking for (who she presumes is) her niece. She finds her on the stairs, and the two face off blankly while Emily's father's pleas of innocence escalate off-screen.

When Scully leads the girl to the social worker’s van, Emily clings to her hand-- revealing nothing, but not unwilling to be in her care, either. Both are grim and determined; and while Scully softens as she tucks the little girl into her car seat-- “Let’s just get you buckled in here nice and safe, okay” is important; and will be discussed below-- Emily doesn’t start to brighten until she catches sight of the other woman’s cross. Without thinking, she reaches for the necklace-- a shiny present she wants to claim; like her mother-- without thinking-- again, like her mother. 

It’s searing in hindsight, knowing this tiny girl is doomed to die; but it’s also bittersweet in the moment as Emily exactly reenacts Scully's dreams and patterns of behavior.

And this leads me to a theory: with how each dream is structured, and with how Emily behaves in them, exactly as she does in real life-- always staring with large, knowing eyes and a somber, resigned expression as if she knows Scully-- I wonder if Emily is the one projecting these dreams. Whenever Scully remembers the past, Emily seems to burst through and center these memories on herself in the present. (And whether she means to or not, I wonder.) Her grandmother has prescient dreams, Melissa had sensing abilities, and Scully herself has had a fair share of psychic and supernatural experiences. I’ve theorized before that all humans have access to psychic ability because of their alien DNA (post here), but need to have a close connection to or brush with Death to unlock it (post here.)

And if that be the case, these dreams and premonitions centering Emily began to occur after Mrs. Sim’s death-- meaning, if that unlocked an ability in Emily (for whatever X-Files reason) then that could be working in tandem with Melissa’s phone calls. And if that be the case, Scully the Conduit (post here) was picking up both signals. Canon itself supports this supposition, though mildly: "You found her; and you saved her," says Mulder; "She found me," Scully corrects.

Scully reaches out to caress Emily’s hair (a mirror of Maggie Scully's maternal gestures) at the same time the girl reaches out to snag her necklace. Touched, and desperate to establish a connection, she asks, with wide eyes, “You like that, huh?” 

Emily doesn’t respond, staring, transfixed, at the cross instead; but Scully takes initiative anyway, immediately removing her chain and clasping it behind her ‘niece's’ neck. This act is a combination of many significant details, which can be summed up in two sentiments: passing on the family legacy to this newly discovered Scully, and surrounding her with God’s protection-- as Maggie had done when she was a little girl; as she did herself, seconds ago, by securing Emily's seat belt. In short, her actions are a marriage of different forms of protection: familial, physical, and spiritual. Scully extends all three to this child before she knows Emily Sim is hers. 

When it is time to go, Scully leans in with an assuring pout and promises, “I’ll see you soon, okay?” And Emily mirrors that pout, nodding up and down in earnestness.

They watch each other through the window, locking eyes as long as possible. 

At Bill and Tara’s Christmas party that evening, Scully can’t focus on the present. 

When Maggie tells her relaxing daughter-in-law, “Every year, my husband insisted on putting the angel on top of the tree by himself” and Bill, just returned from hobnobbing, teases his late dad’s masculinity-- “Man’s work”-- to her and Tara’s amusement, Scully remains distant and lost in thought. Bill looks down and notices her detachment; and, having reached his limit, asks, “Dana, can you give me a hand in the kitchen?”

Maggie immediately snaps her head over, knowing exactly what her son is doing; and Tara’s face drops, knowing exactly what her husband’s doing, too. Both women, it would appear, figure the siblings have grievances to air; but hope it won't get to insulting or catastrophic levels. They’re both adults after all, right? 

And that’s another interesting point: as uncomfortable as this shift has made Maggie and Tara-- even more so because Scully hasn’t fully returned from the cloud of her thoughts, and isn't clued in to what’s about to happen-- they’re not trying to mitigate or stop Bill. It would seem they, too, have criticisms of Dana’s behavior lately, but haven't voiced them for her and Christmas’s sake. We know this to be the case because of Bill’s accusations in the kitchen: Mrs. Scully has been sharing her daughter’s information with her son and daughter-in-law, likely in an attempt to smooth ruffled feathers or get them to understand what she’s going through. However, this, in turn, makes Scully feel judged and vulnerable; and, despite Maggie and Bill’s best intentions, she begins to retreat even more.

“What’s up?” Scully asks as Bill begins pouring himself a drink. 

“I need you to tell me what’s going on,” he says, voice light but concerned. 

“What do you mean?”

“You’re not here, Dana, you’re a million miles away. I thought you came to see the family.”

Scully, caught, sinks into annoyed despair. “I did.” 

“Well, I thought that this other thing was resolved,” Bill huffs, becoming frustrated himself. “I thought you caught the guy that murdered that woman.”

“We did,” she affirms, trying to draw him away from shaky territory but unable to look up from the ground. 

Bill, as always, sees right through her: “Then it’s about the girl, isn’t it?” 

She doesn’t answer, determined not to-- but her eyes pop up after he passes by, realizing he must have gotten that information from someone.  

Conciliatory-- trying to prove he’s on her side, that she doesn’t have to ice him out, that he understands-- Bill softly confesses, “Mom told me.” Maintaining eye contact, his voice rises higher, almost cracking at the end, “You really think Melissa had a baby?”  

“Yes, I do,” Scully admits; and her admittance now-- an admittance born from, he thinks, a crazy partnership with a crazy partner who keeps invading their family time with selfish, questing demands-- irritates him completely. 

“She call you from beyond the grave to tell you that,” he mocks, voice edged with bitterness. 

At this sudden attack, his sister is instantly furious… and hurt, tightening her chin to prevent an influx of strong, complicated emotions. 

“Sounds like something that partner of yours would say,” he concludes, somehow shifting the blame entirely off of Dana’s shoulders and onto Mulder's while simultaneously-- and accidentally-- insulting her intelligence and abilities. 

Fed up with his misunderstanding, Scully insists, “It does not matter where that phone call came from. What matters is that there is a little girl who needs my help.” 

“This isn’t about any little girl, Dana,” he snaps, done with the pretense on both sides-- a pretense she is unaware of and confused by, tilting her head in astonishment at his blunt, “It’s about you.” 

Bill continues with his half-right, half-wrong blunders: “It’s about this emptiness, this void inside yourself you’re trying to fill.” 

And that is when he takes it too far: it’s one thing to be chastised about her inconclusive connections by a mother who understands, and it’s another to be reprimanded by a brother who doesn’t; and who constantly misreads her intent. 

But the truth is: they’re both in differing degrees of wrong here-- 

Scully has spent their joint Christmas vacation taking off at all hours of the day and night without a word. To the family, this is a slap in the face, especially considering she chose to fly out to bond with them during a new and intimate chapter of their lives. (Not to mention, one of them is close to her due date and up every morning making breakfast for her guests.)

Bill is not the only person who is frustrated: Maggie, too, keeps chastising her daughter’s flakiness. Maggie, too, outright fights Scully's theories and suppositions. While struggling with her own feelings, Mrs. Scully is also forced to mitigate between her daughter and her son's pent up emotions.

While it is certainly not his place to presuppose or judge, Bill is trying to understand his sister's perspective. If that isn't difficult enough, most of his assumptions are derived from is mother-- the exact same sticky situation as the cancer arc (posts here and here.)

Because Scully isn’t communicating with anyone unless she has to, the family is left to grapple with whatever information or interpretation they can gather or think up to explain her behavior. This leads to projections and assumptions: Maggie assumes Scully is seeing Melissa everywhere the way she saw her late husband; and Bill assumes Scully is struggling with an emptiness and void that he and Tara struggled with during their infertility journey.

And that’s where Scully’s fault lies: she assumes her brother wouldn’t understand, even if she told him. She is aware, to some extent, that Bill and Tara struggled with infertility; but she hasn’t stopped to learn the details. That’s understandable, too; but when Bill blunders in and gives her unsolicited advice, he is speaking from his own feelings and emotions-- not to chastise or finger wag at her. 

And that’s where Bill’s fault lies, too: he is given no direct answer of his sister’s feelings, so he projects his own onto her to humanize her actions. This, in turn, makes him impose his own thoughts, beliefs, and wishes onto her, as well: she, too, must feel and emptiness and void at not being able to have children; and that void must be guiding her to these actions.

And that’s the really messed up part: they’re both half-right and half-wrong; but the miscommunication from all sides is exacerbating the issue. Maggie pries open Scully and shares what she finds with Bill and Tara to soothe their feelings; this gives them a faulty understanding, and clams Scully up tighter next time.

In short: the problem is, Scully isn’t communicating fully; and her half-responses leave blanks for Maggie or Bill or Tara to fill in. And when they do communicate, everyone’s opinions and thoughts-- while well-intentioned-- careen away from each other and crash in a ditch.

 Without knowing where Bill is coming from-- and possibly not registering the vulnerability in his eyes-- Scully loses the last ounce of her patience; and, rightfully, sticks up for herself: “Bill, I don’t expect you to understand but I am not going to stand here and justify my mo--” 

“Dana?” Maggie cuts in, looking between both of her children. Called back to herself, Scully grits her teeth and looks away from her brother. “There’s a telephone call for you.” 

She leaves without another word; and Maggie studies Bill intently before following her out, reading from his face that the conversation ended in disaster.

After Mr. Sim’s staged suicide, Scully returns home to a warm, inviting fireplace, eyes misting at its likeness to her former childhood memories. She then notices the manger scene, a little child in the center of so much hope and intrigue. (There is a connection between Scully's journey and this manger scene-- no, not in the way you're thinking... at least, not exactly-- which I shall touch on in the next part.)

Bill pops into the room, voice tense as he asks, “When did you get back?” 

Startled, she stares into his eyes a few seconds in silence; then, seeing he intends no harm, simply replies, “I just got back.”

“Well, you’re just in time,” he amends, diffusing his feelings for the moment. “I was on my way over to the neighbors. Mom and Tara are already there.”

Unable to keep up even a whisper of facade, Scully ducks her head, nodding with pinched eyebrows and a strained face. 

“What?” he asks, softly. “What happened?”

Her head shoots back up, eyes wide and turbulent-- was she that obvious?-- as she questions whether to tell the truth. Her eyes tear up and her mouth slightly tightens before Scully admits to Marshall Sim’s death. 

Bill is sympathetic-- empathetic, even, as he asks, “Do you think it has something to do with that little girl?”

His tenderness and openness to hearing her thoughts, and to intelligently connecting a few dots on his own, releases her strain. “I think it might,” she assents. 

He pauses, turning inward, before pronouncing, “Dana, I have to show you something.” 

Intrigued, Scully follows her brother up to the nursery-- her room-- where he digs out a photo of Melissa-- one she'd never shared with her sister. 

After handing the picture over, Bill slumps his way to the window, head down, shoulders inward.

“Look at the date on the back,” he says heavily. Missy’s death still strongly affects him, so much so that touching this part of his past is draining to Bill. Which must be particularly affecting, considering his desire to replicate every detail of his childhood, down to the same rooms, for his own nuclear family.  

The date is Oct. 7 - 94; and when Scully flips it over to check, Bill releases a weary sigh. 

“Does Melissa look pregnant to you in that picture? It’s about four weeks before the girl was born.”

This is interesting: the Scully family, as a whole, has a problem with communication-- Scully with sharing her thoughts, her job, her conflicting beliefs; Bill with his struggles and weaknesses. To reveal that he knew Melissa wasn’t pregnant in 1994, Bill would've had to dredge up that photo as proof. Instead, he’d hoped to avoid that-- just as Scully had hoped to avoid sharing her own findings and suspicions about Emily.

After their argument, Bill, it seems, wanted to sweep the disagreement under the rug and enjoy Christmas. That resolution, however, fell through after seeing Scully's crestfallen face. And after hearing his sister mention murders disguised as suicides, Bill realized his reticence was no longer a priority if Dana was putting her life in danger because of a false dream.

“Bill, it doesn’t prove anything. Melissa didn’t have to get pregnant to have a baby, there’s--” Scully grasps for an idea, eyes wandering, “--there’s in vitro fertilization, there’s surrogate motherhood--” 

“Dana,” Bill cuts in. “Listen to yourself. You’re creating this whole scenario to fulfill a dream.”

“What dream?” She knows, deep down, what he means; but hasn’t wanted to touch this thought directly. 

“To have a child.”

Again, Scully struggles with self-doubt: his reasons sound valid, and logical. Are the dreams and the phone calls and the 60% chance just projections, as her mother said, as her brother is saying? (Which he got from their mother, no doubt.) 

“Look, I…” Bill pauses, stopping and starting his own difficult admission, “I understand. I know the need--” he tears up and looks away as the words spill out, “--Tara and I tried for years. But making this girl,” he concludes, convinced in the righteousness of his pursuit, “into Melissa’s daughter is not the way. You’re only going to end up hurting yourself.” His face is iron, his warning absolute. 

But though his words waiver, they cannot convince; and Scully won’t let the possibility go, not when she still has doubts. More honestly, not when Emily calls out to a part of herself.

The doorbell rings, and Bill sighs, walking away to answer it. The second he leaves, her face wilts, mouth and nose twitching against tears. 

“Hi,” he greets; and “Hi,” he is answered. 

“I’m here to see Dana Scully.”

“Oh, may I ask, um--”

“I’m Susan Chambliss from the County. It’s about the adoption.”

At that truth bomb, Bill looks up at his sister, shooting her a “Dana?” just as her face contorts in mild panic, caught. 

Gliding past Bill’s question, she swiftly says, “Hi. Thank you for coming in on Christmas Eve,” and rushes past after one last glance at his discomfited expression. 

Here is where we get an incredibly telling look into one Dana Scully’s psychology. 

Her application for adoption is denied, and she nearly breaks down in tears as Susan kindly lays out the reasons why she shouldn’t consider adoption, stating, “You’re a single woman who’s never been married, or had a long-term relationship. You’re in a high-stress, time-intensive, and dangerous occupation-- one that I sense you’re deeply committed to. And one which would become overnight a secondary priority--”

Scully looks up, either to contradict or persuade, but bites back her reply until the other woman is finished.

“--to the care and well-being of this child. I’m not sure this is a sacrifice you’re prepared to make.”

And perhaps Scully isn’t, either: she’s rushing things (just as she later rushes the IVF, posts here and here), and is troubled that not only would she have to ease up on her dedication to her occupation-- to the X-Files, to Mulder, even-- but that she hadn’t considered she’d have to. 

“Well, it’s one that I’ve given a great deal of thought to,” she explains, nearly losing the battle to her tears. “To be honest, I’ve started to question my priorities since I was first diagnosed with cancer.” 

This revelation-- and the fact that she is struggling with her infertility and was loathe to share these struggles with Mulder this past week-- points to two possibilities:

Scully was, perhaps, looking for a way out, and Emily provided that. This isn't likely, considering the stunned reaction she has when internalizing the consequences for adopting her high-risk 'niece'.

Or Scully is misinterpreting the signs again: doubting herself, her choices, her commitments; doubting whether her sister should have died, whether she should have gotten cancer, whether she should have been stripped of her fertility.  This is not only likely but also transparently the case: she's rushing into these decisions, despite the danger, despite the fulfillment her work provides, despite the loss of her close working relationship with Mulder. Scully's staring down an endless line, and thinks Emily is the new 'right path' she faces at every crux of her life.

Scully has been struggling with the fact of her infertility for months-- so much so that she only told her mother, and then only under added pressure. Again, she is trapped in a cycle of hyper-fixation-- that endless line, post here-- doubting herself and laying unnecessary blame at her feet. We know Scully commits to then wants to backtrack on her commitment-- in other words, she has attachment issues (post here)-- and looks to other signs or other voices or "other fathers" to tell her what to do, be it dating Daniel Waterston or breaking up with him or recruiting to the FBI or doubting her recruitment or partnering with Mulder or doubting her partnership with Mulder or getting cancer or losing her faith or gaining her faith or recovering from cancer or losing her fertility or finding her 'niece'. In short, she probably sees this miracle 'happenstance' as a second chance, or a sign from God or the paranormal or the supernatural that her sister sanctions; and thinks Melissa-- who she ‘failed’-- is relying on her to save her daughter. A new mission, a new appointed path. And though it doesn't feel right, she tells herself, "There's only one right thing to do."

And yet, the thought that she’d have to give up her work shakes Scully to the core: she is in tears at the thought, but she is also in tears at losing this last chance. (Mulder senses this, too, in Emily; but, as he tells the judge, doesn’t feel it’s his right to deny a mother her child.) 

“And I feel like I’ve been given a second chance,” she admits, nailing my previous points home. 

“Ever since I was a child, I’ve, I’ve never allowed myself to get too close to people. I’ve avoided emotional attachments. Perhaps I’ve been so afraid of death or dying that any connection just seemed like a bad thing. Something that wouldn’t last.” Her dreams make more and more sense: the rabbit and the snake and the coffin and her beloved vocation. “But I don’t feel that way anymore.”

This is the reason why she brought a cheese platter to Mulder’s room in Detour; and this is the reason she took family time off and has avoided reaching out: she is caught in another cycle of self-doubt-- questioning their partnership, questioning her abilities, questioning the X-Files's endless line. But what Scully is missing is that she hasn’t taken family time off, not really-- it’s not her nature to do so, for long. Even her own vacation later this season (Chinga) is interrupted by a case, which she solves without resentment. She needs the work just as much as Mulder does-- and she knows this. But that doesn't stop the toxic pattern of self-sabotage.

“You are aware of Emily’s medical condition. I want to stress to you, Dana,” the social worker continues, “Emily is a special needs child. According to her doctors, her condition is incurable. She requires constant care, both medical and emotional. The good news is, you have first hand experience of grave illness. The bad news is, you’d have to relive it through the eyes of a child.”

Again, Scully almost breaks-- tears nearly spilling over, mouth crumbling. That is hard: she still avoids mentioning her past illness whenever possible. But what else, she believes, can she do? 

“I realize that,” she nods, wiping a tear away. “And I feel like I’m ready.” 

Scully is being tossed about by remission expectations and fertility expectations and familial expectations and her own impossible expectations; and is grasping at motherhood as the fix-it solution she thinks she needs. The reality is… she’s not ready for parenthood. She would love Emily with all her heart; but she would have had to turn from the path she chose, the one that feels right, the one she still needs to learn and grow.

There is one last dream in store for Dana Scully: Melissa joins her for a late-night couch chat, wanting to know why her little sister is up.

“You worried about Quantico, or who gets the most presents this year?” she teases, a little joke over do-gooder Scully probably being the goodest girl all year for Santa; or a delicate poke at her insanely competitive, insanely jealous younger sister. 

“I guess I’m afraid I’m making a big mistake. I could tell Dad sure thinks I am,” Scully confesses-- how easy it appears she was able to confess back then, before international conspiracies and scientific, rigorous adherence. 

“Oh. Well, it’s not his life, Dana.”

“Yeah, I know that. But y’know, when I started med school, it felt so right. It just seemed like that was where I was supposed to be. Then… and then by the time I graduated, I just knew it was wrong. And now the FBI feels right. But what if that’s wrong, too?” The self-doubts and endless lines were there from the beginning. 

“There is no right or wrong,” Melissa replies. “Life’s… just a path. You follow your heart, and it’ll take you where you’re supposed to go.” This motto defines Scully and her life choices.

“I don’t believe in fate. I think we have to choose our own path.”

And here is the voice of her conscience, her intuition, her guide: “Well, just don’t mistake the path with what’s really important in life.” 

“Which is what?”

“The people you’re going to meet along the way. You don’t know who you’re going to meet when you join the FBI. You don’t know how much your life is gonna change. Or… how you’re gonna change the lives of others.” 

Scully is being pointed once again back to her path-- the FBI-- and the people she changed there-- Mulder. As much as she craves a life with Emily, it isn't meant to be: something feels off, conflicting; but it also feels right. Because she is here to save another life-- Emily-- before going back to hers. She still has answers and truths to uncover for herself before she can leave this life, this path, with a good conscience. 

Tara wakes her from this last dream; and Bill and Maggie swoop in behind her. 

“Did Santa come?” he teases. 

“Santa’s still here,” Tara returns, pointing at Scully. 

“She always had to be the first one up on Christmas-- couldn’t wait to get into those presents,” Bill parries, cuddling up to his wife and making her and Maggie laugh. 

Mrs. Scully swoops to the couch and snuggles up to her daughter; but before anymore distractions (ahem, Bill) can continue, Tara waves him off and exclaims, “Okay, enough pleasantries! I’m dying to know what’s in this box!” 

Bill launches to the tree, excitedly passing presents to his wife, mother, and sister-- even the forgotten Scully sibling (Charlie) sent a present. For once, everything seems to be going smoothly.

A brief note on Charlie: as already mentioned here, his lore seems to be spotty at best. But there is one consistent theme: ever since they were boys, Charlie stuck around and played with Bill (per One Breath’s flashback); and that seems to have carried into adulthood. He sent a message through Bill in Memento Mori’s deleted scene, and he sent a present for the family this year through Bill again. Whatever the status of his relationship with the Scullys, he seems to always use with his elder brother as his mouthpiece-- like Melissa had been for Scully, before her death.  

“Don’t open anything-- don’t open! I’ll be right back!” Bill chirps as he rushes out of the room to answer the doorbell. 

Of course, it’s a man with a package for FBI Agent Dana Scully. Bill rushes back while she signs for then reads it; but at her prolonged silence, the room becomes still. 

“What is it?” asks Maggie, worried. 

“It’s a DNA test on Emily Sim’s blood.”

“What’s it say?” Bill asks, voice devoid of amusement as he rises to his full height. Maggie, too, is similarly unamused. 

“It says definitively that Melissa is not Emily’s mother--” Mrs. Scully looks down, anticipating unpleasant emotions for her daughter, while Bill maintains eye contact, brows lowering in stressed pity, “--but that they found striking genetic similarities between Emily and Melissa. So many that they… ran a test against another sample that they already had.”

“What sample?” Maggie questions. 

“Wh-what are you trying to say?” Bill prods-- he knows, or is afraid he knows. 

“According to this… I am Emily’s mother.” 

We’re not shown the Scully family’s reaction to this news; but the next time they appear is in court, slipping out of the judge’s chambers after giving testimony on Scully’s behalf. 

Mulder is waiting outside on a chair when Tara leads the way, approaching him trepidatiously with Bill right behind her and Maggie lagging back. As Bill steps forward, visibly fuming over the other man’s presence, Tara flashes Mulder a tight smile-- taking neither side, but remaining polite. Her husband stands his ground, forcing Mulder to go around; and stares after his sister's partner with hatred and contempt. 

The last time we see the Scully family is at Emily Sim's funeral.

Alone, Scully sits in the church, withdrawn as figure after figure passes by. Maggie's gentle hand on her shoulder rouses her-- another the one person who can understand the loss of a child.

Tears glistening in her eyes, Mrs. Scully asks, “Are you ready?”

“I think I’ll get a ride back with Mulder,” Scully replies: choosing her place not with her "normal" family but with her partner-- a woman in search of the truth, where she knows she belongs.

At least, as Melissa said, until the next thing feels right. 

They embrace in understanding, then Scully pivots to give her brother an affectionate hug goodbye. He leans his face down into her shoulder, burying his nose there while she envelops him fully. 

An important note: these are the first hugs Scully has initiated-- a gesture of comfort for her mother and brother-- and both are hugs goodbye (which will be discussed below.)

But Scully doesn’t linger long: she drifts over to Tara, who is standing behind her husband, ashamed of her own good luck and happiness. Scully beams at her sister-in-law and the baby-- she will not taint little Matthew’s arrival with sadness-- and is faintly aware that Bill is carefully watching her face, relaxing only when he sees her able to face her nephew. 

Greeting the baby with a kiss, Scully whispers, “Bye bye Matthew” as Tara’s face nearly crumbles in tenderness, relief, and sorrow. 

“We’ll see you in awhile, okay?” Tara says, and Scully assents, “Okay.”

This, then, means Scully is leaving from the church directly to the airport: ‘Bye, bye, Matthew’ and the long hugs and well-wishes only point to one conclusion. If they expected her back at the house, their goodbyes wouldn’t be so final. And that means the mystery of Emily’s coffin will never be revealed to the family-- another of Scully’s well-kept secrets. 

Maggie stays behind to trade one last smile with her daughter before following the new parents out, and Scully gives one back: she will be all right. 

So many meanings can be gleaned from Mrs. Scully's final glance back: she knows her daughter wants to heal alone, and respects her; she grieves for her daughter's loss, and she empathizes with that pain. But most importantly, I think, is that she is proud of Scully.

Scully will be all right... until her peace is spit upon posthumously: Emily's body has been spirited away. No proof of her only chance at motherhood (for now.)

MENTIONS, APPEARANCES, AND OTHER LOOSE ENDS

We hear about the Scully family twice in Season 6: You have a brother who hates me,” Mulder insists, trying to convince his partner he is who he says he is (Dreamland); "Mulder, call it whatever you like-- I've got holiday cheer to spread. I've got a family roll call under the tree at 6:00 a.m.," Scully insists when he lures her to a haunted mansion on Christmas Eve (How the Ghosts Stole Christmas.) It's obvious, then, that the events of Emily have not torn apart these relationships.

Season 7 features one mention-- in En Ami, Scully lies about going away for a family emergency; and Mulder is on familiar enough terms to call up Maggie and ask about the family emergency. It's obvious that Mulder's closeness with Scully's mother has changed between seasons; and, though he called her likely out of concern for his partner, he came away from that phone call with enough calm (it's implied) to not frighten Mrs. Scully out of her wits, unlike every other call before.

And lastly, for me, Season 8: Maggie appears at Mulder’s funeral (Deadalive)-- but doesn’t stay as long as Skinner (likely because she knows her daughter wants to be left alone)-- and her daughter's (begrudging) baby shower (Essence.)

"You know it would be a whole lot easier for everyone if you would just tell us the sex, Dana?" Maggie prods as she hurries about the party area, arranging and rearranging balloons. When Scully doesn't respond, she yells from the other room, "Did you hear me?"

"Yes I heard you, Mom, for about the thousandth time-- you can wait. Didn't you have to wait with us?"

"Well," her mother rambles on, "I just know it's a boy. I can just tell by the way you're carrying-- it's a boy."

"Well, see, you obviously don't need me to tell you because you obviously already know," Scully baits, letting her mother stand shocked and overjoyed for a few seconds without correcting her assumptions.

"Then it's a boy?"

Without replying, Scully stares her down while turning on the tap: purposefully withholding the information with a straight face and twinkle in her eye.

"Oh, it's the least you can tell your mother considering everything else you're keeping secret."

They're interrupted by a knock. The arrival of Lizzie Gill reveals another layer of Mrs. Scully's meddling: she's signed up a baby nurse to help her daughter, without her daughter's permission. Scully doesn't outright jump at the offer, but does get comfortable around Lizzie (while ignoring her mother's pointed "See?" glances) enough to later accept her assistance.

This moment-- and other similar moments like this-- paints a rather interesting picture of their dynamic:

Scully is sharing less with her mother than she used to-- or, perhaps, Maggie is realizing how much her daughter keeps secret.

Yet, it doesn't seem to disrupt their relationship: Maggie is glad to participate in any way she can, enthusiastically peppering the apartment with decorations and her daughter with questions.

Maggie hired a baby nurse for Scully: why? Apparently, she thinks Scully would be unwilling to have her mother stay over while settling into early parenthood, despite her own "retirement" and widowhood. The nurse, in question, would function as hired help for practical needs; meaning, she wouldn't be staying over, either. This establishes that Mrs. Scully is alerted to and fully supportive of her daughter's strictly enforced boundaries.

"Considering everything else you're keeping secret" means that Scully (and Mulder) have not discussed his role in her baby's life at all with other people. At. All. And that it was Scully who decided on this continued secrecy, refusing to answer any questions during her entire pregnancy. Mulder's followed in her footsteps-- and probably likes that others are hindered from asking him questions or handing out back slaps-- while everyone else has been left to make assumptions. Including Maggie Scully.

Unfortunately, Scully stumbles upon Lizzie swapping her baby vitamins; and, having eaten some already, rushes to the hospital to have a full examination. Maggie waits with Mulder in the hallway; and after the doctor gives her patient an all-clear, Mrs. Scully rushes in and asks for her daughter's forgiveness.

"I'm so sorry, Dana." Seeing that Scully is frozen in place, trying to master her emotions, her mother initiates the embrace-- as she always has-- and continues, "This is all my fault. I brought this into your home. You know I would never let anything happen to you," she adds, a repeat of her words in Wetwired, while looking down at her daughter's baby bump. "Would never knowingly let anybody hurt you."

Scully keeps her head down, but assures, "I know, Mom."

Studying her face, Maggie adds, "I'm so worried about you. You keep everything so bottled up." This, then, paints Maggie's overbearing meddling and thousand-and-one questions in another light: anticipation over her grandchild, yes; but also frenzied worry and concern for her daughter, as well.

Again, Scully doesn't answer, nodding along as if to soothe her mother rather than admit her reticence; then looks aside to Mulder before his attention is pulled away and consumed by Skinner. However, it is important to note Maggie was included in this hospital visit: we know she's no longer on Scully's paperwork (hasn't been since pre-One Breath, that we're aware of; and hasn't shown up for any of Scully's S8 medical emergencies, which proves she was completely in the dark.) And we know Scully would have called Mulder, regardless, to help apprehend Lizzie Gill once the other woman was caught. But Scully chose to call up her mother and ask her to the hospital: perhaps because she feared the worst, the premature death of her baby. It's one thing to fear miscarriage before you've told your mother about the pregnancy (Via Negativa), and it's another thing entirely to lose the baby after your mother is invested in its arrival.

And that's it for Maggie Scully, Bill Scully, Charlie Scully, Tara Scully, or Matthew Scully's appearances! Or so I decree, as someone whose stops canon at Season 8~.

I leave Season 9 and IWTB and the Revival for those who want to take up the mantle and explore the Scully family for me: it wouldn't be fair to this series to spend the last few parts picking apart my grievances.

CONCLUSION 

That's it for the Scully family! Can you believe we've come this far?

Only two parts left: the tragedy of Emily Sim, and the failure and success of Scully's (and Mulder's) journey to parenthood.

Thanks for reading~

Enjoy!

[fieriframes]

[SO WE GOT THIS ALL MIXED IN. WHAT'S NEXT? SOME PINEAPPLE JUICE... AND MORE PINEAPPLE JUICE. YEAH. QUILIBET LIBRORUM XXIII DE ILLIS IN PARTE SERMOCINATUR? YEP, GOTTA GET THAT TANG. WU-TANG. THERE YOU GO.]

[musiclandoux]

: 🎼💜🎼

Incubus

Part 2

[rowonlgc]

he slides into the dorm easily, having been there so many times before and he looks really pleased with himself as he settles the box on the bed. he’s here enough that he feels pretty comfortable in the dorm, not even pretending to hide or anything as he heads out after his deed has been done.

on the box is written FOR HAN ROWON ONLY in black sharpie, and he grins to himself as he leaves, pleased.

inside the box, there are some gummy candies, a vintage sweatshirt, a small keychain and a card with some writing inside.

hope you like the candy jagi rowonnie~ it’s mmm bitable :D we need another movie date soon btw 🩵 iseul

  there’s one thing that immediately catches rowon’s attention the moment he opens up the box.  for now, he promptly decides to unsee it.  the second item, though, garners a much different reaction.  his eyes brighten as he secures the very cute yet very murderous cat to his keychain and gives it a satisfied jingle.  it’s like having iseul in his pocket.  ( not that iseul is in any way murderous, but let’s just say it wouldn’t shock rowon to see him running around with a knife. )

  he keeps the card propped on his desk and sets the sweatshirt aside after trying it on  ( oversized, perfect for layering, a thoughtful gift – or maybe it’s iseul’s way of telling him to shut up about the cold ).

  and finally ..

  rowon stares at the teeth gummies.  the teeth gummies stare back.  he stares even harder, squinting at the absolute atrocity.  teeth gummies.  gummies that are shaped like teeth.  it’s so bizarre that he can’t help but laugh.

SENT TO › 조이슬 01 / 01

  ✉️ › twilight marathon   ✉️ › tonight.   ✉️ › you can hold me during the scary parts   ✉️ › just bring yourself, i got snacks covered.   📸 › [  MENACING IMAGE OF THE TEETH GUMMIES  ]

[aajjks]

The conqueror (XXIII.)

Synopsis: He had conquered everything, anything but your heart.

Pairings: Yandere!King Jungkook x Commoner!servant Reader

warnings: yándèrè, DÁRK TRÍGGÈRÍNG THÈMÈS, dárk óbsèssíòn, cràzy júngkòòk, dèprèssíón, 18+ thèmès, íntènsè thèmès, kórèàn tràdítíòns, àttèmpt át súícídè, NÓNCÔN KÍSSÍNG, TÓUCHÏNG, lüst, sèxúàl thèmès,

note. YALLLL This chapter is my best one yet I am so proud. Also, just a warning I have copy pasted some of the Korean traditional stuff from Google so I’m just telling you guys in advance and if you have any questions ask or anything to tell me just come into my inbox because this chapter is a terrifying. And sooooo sexy 🥵🥵🥵 undeniably, sexy… I have no words, but please please please share your feedback. OK I love you guys. Enjoy.

series masterlist

taglist: @mageprincess7 @starsggukk @sprinkleoftee @koremis @minshookie29 @sana-b @bangtannoonalvg @oonaaurora @jeonsweetpea @sugaslittlekookies @outro-kook @kthyg @lunaashes @debicaptain-saturn @laurynne5 @captainsjoongs @myblackconfessions @lanalanexpjm @namjooncrabs @shadowmoon21 @kookunot @natalie-rdr @angelicasdre @iwasfuckinginnocentonce @mermaidtea @foulnightharmony @ungodlyjoon @quechulitaaa @telepathytae @silversparkles11 @j3alous-ang3l @bunzom @1-in-abillion @breadgeniedope @jiminie-08 @artgukk @lovesthetword @bunijmin @pinkcherrybombs @afangirllikeme-blog @twilight-love-nochu-main @wedarkacademia @hollxe1 @bighitfics @darkuni63 @golden-thv @investedreader @sweetempathprunetree @koocreampie (I can’t tag anymore people, it’s full 😭😭)

The air feels heavy, oppressive, as if the entire palace is holding its breath in anticipation of this day. Your wedding day. The day your life is to be bound forever to the man you hate most in this world. You sit in your chambers, unable to bring yourself to look in the mirror. The room is alive with movement, court ladies bustling around you, adjusting every detail of your appearance as though they’re preparing a lamb for slaughter.

The silk of your hanbok feels suffocating, its intricate embroidery weighing you down. The deep crimson and golden hues, symbols of purity and virtue, mock you with every thread. This is not a union of love. This is a chain, cold and unyielding, tying you to a man who thrives on blood and power.

“Perfect, my lady,” the seamstress finally declares, stepping back to admire her work. Her smile is full of pride, but it feels hollow.

Nothing about today is perfect.

“How fortunate you are to marry the king,” Na-yeon whispers close to your ear, her tone laced with a smugness that makes your stomach turn. “Most women would kill to be in your place.”

You don’t respond. Your throat feels tight, your heart heavy. Most women don’t know the truth about him. Most women haven’t seen the darkness that festers behind his piercing gaze. If they did, they’d run far, far away.

“Leave me alone,” you whisper weakly, your voice cracking. The court ladies exchange glances but obey, bowing before quietly filing out of the room. All except Na-yeon. She lingers, always watching, always ready to report back to him.

“You should feel honored,” she says, her voice soft but sharp, like the blade of a knife. “This is the greatest moment of your life.”

You swallow hard, fists clenched in your lap. “The greatest moment of my life?” you repeat bitterly. “This is the worst moment of my life. I’d rather die.”

For a fleeting second, her expression falters, but it’s gone just as quickly. She straightens, smoothing the front of her hanbok. “You mustn’t say such things, my lady. The king wouldn’t like to hear that.”

You glare at her. “Let him hear it. I don’t care anymore.”

But even as the words leave your mouth, you feel the weight of them settle in your chest. You’ve felt the consequences of his anger before. You know better than to provoke him. And yet, part of you doesn’t care.

You’re desperate, grasping at any semblance of control, even if it means testing his patience. You wish that you had died last night when he had attempted to take your own life, but then….

Na-Yeon had caught you. She has been like a shadow and now you’re here.

The palace courtyard is alive with activity, the sound of drums echoing through the cold morning air. The ceremonial guards stand in perfect formation, their armor gleaming under the pale sunlight.

Nobles and officials gather in clusters, their voices hushed as they exchange whispers about the grand occasion.

You’re led through the courtyard by a procession of attendants, their hands firm on your arms as they guide you toward the altar. You want to run, to scream, but your body betrays you. Your legs move mechanically, your feet dragging across the stone path as though weighed down by chains.

The altar looms ahead, a grand structure draped in silk banners and adorned with offerings of fruit, rice, and incense. At its center stands Jungkook, his figure imposing, cloaked in the rich robes of a king. His dark eyes find yours immediately, piercing through the crowd, and your breath catches.

There’s something about the way he looks at you—intense, unyielding, predatory. It sends a shiver down your spine. He’s been waiting for this moment, and the satisfaction in his expression is unmistakable.

As you approach, the murmurs of the crowd fall silent. All eyes are on you now.

“Bow,” one of the court ladies hisses under her breath.

You hesitate for only a moment before lowering yourself to the ground, your knees pressing against the cold stone. Your head dips forward in a deep bow, a gesture of submission that makes your stomach churn.

Jungkook steps forward, his movements slow, deliberate. You feel his presence before you see him, the weight of it suffocating.

“Rise,” he commands, his voice deep and resonant.

“AND… you, the court lady… never ever talk to my wife like that, or I will have your tongue for breakfast.” Jungkook growls and the lady immediately cowers in fear, he glares daggers into her head.

You watch and you hear everything.

He’s so scary.

You obey, standing on shaky legs as he towers over you. He doesn’t speak, but his eyes tell you everything. You belong to him now.

The ceremony begins with the gabae, the presentation of gifts. Silk, gold, jewels—each item is placed before you with great ceremony, a display of wealth and power that feels more like a taunt than a gesture of goodwill.

Jungkook watches you intently, his gaze never wavering. You can feel the heat of it, burning into your skin, as though he’s daring you to object. But you don’t. You can’t.

Next comes the pyebaek, the bowing ritual. You kneel once again, this time before Jungkook and the royal elders. Your movements are stiff, your body trembling with each bow. The elders nod in approval, their expressions impassive, while Jungkook watches with a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.

“Beautiful,” he murmurs under his breath, so low only you can hear. The word feels like a brand, searing into your skin.

The final ritual is the joongin, the sharing of food. A tray of offerings is placed before you—steamed rice, dried fish, and fruits carefully arranged in intricate patterns. Jungkook picks up a piece of fruit, holding it out to you.

“Eat,” he commands.

You hesitate, your eyes darting to the food. Your hands tremble as you take the fruit from him, the act feeling more symbolic than it should. As you take a bite, the crowd erupts into applause, their cheers echoing across the courtyard.

It’s done. You are now his queen.

The celebrations continue long into the evening, but you barely notice. Your mind is numb, your body moving on autopilot as you’re led through the motions of the day. Smiling when prompted, nodding when addressed—it’s all a blur.

As the sun sets, the palace is bathed in the warm glow of lanterns. The air is thick with the scent of incense and wine, the sounds of laughter and music filling the halls. But you don’t feel joy. You feel hollow.

Later that night, Jungkook finds you in your chambers. He’s shed his ceremonial robes for a simpler, darker outfit, but his presence is just as commanding.

“Come,” he says, extending a hand toward you.

You don’t move. Your feet feel rooted to the ground, your heart pounding in your chest.

“Don’t make me ask again,” he warns, his voice low, dangerous.

Reluctantly, you take his hand. His grip is firm, almost possessive, as he leads you toward the royal chambers.

The night stretches ahead of you, long and uncertain. You don’t know what awaits you behind those doors, but one thing is certain: your life, as you knew it, is over.

•••

Hours later… you are even more terrified.

The air in the bridal chamber is thick with tension. The flickering candlelight casts long, trembling shadows across the walls, the golden dragons embroidered on the silk bedding almost seeming to writhe. You stand frozen in the center of the room, your hands fidgeting with the delicate fabric of your wedding hanbok. Your heart pounds in your chest like a caged animal, the cold sweat on your back soaking through the layers of expensive silk.

The heavy door creaks open behind you, and you flinch. His footsteps are slow, deliberate, each one a deliberate announcement of his presence. King Jungkook—no, your husband now—steps into the room, his dark robes flowing behind him, the faint scent of musk and sandalwood following him.

He stands tall, broad shoulders and a powerful frame outlined by the flickering light. His strong jaw clenches slightly, and his dark, piercing eyes drink you in. His presence is suffocating, his physique commanding. The ceremonial attire does little to hide the strength beneath the fine fabric, his toned chest visible through the parting of his robe. His raven-black hair falls slightly into his eyes, framing his perfect like features. He is devastatingly beautiful, and that terrifies you.

“You look breathtaking,” he says, his voice low and husky, carrying an edge that sends a shiver down your spine.

You take a small step back, the edge of the bed pressing against the back of your legs.

His eyes narrow at the movement, but he doesn’t comment. He shuts the door behind him with a soft click, the sound filling the silence like a judge sealing your fate.

Jungkook moves toward you slowly, his gaze fixed on you like a predator stalking its prey. Your mouth feels dry, your throat tight as you take another step back, only to have your knees buckle slightly when you bump into the bed.

“There’s no need to be afraid, my queen,” he murmurs, his voice deceptively soft. “Tonight is ours. No one will disturb us.”

You open your mouth to respond, to beg or plead, but the words die on your lips when he reaches out. His hand is warm as it brushes against your cheek, his thumb tracing your trembling lower lip. The touch is almost tender, but the hunger in his eyes betrays him.

“Do you know how long I’ve waited for this moment?” he whispers, his tone dark with an undercurrent of desperation. His thumb presses slightly against your lip, as if testing your resolve. “How many nights I’ve dreamed of you, Y/N?”

“Y-Your Majesty—”

“Jungkook,” he interrupts, his tone firm, almost commanding. “You are mine now, my queen. No more formalities.”

Your breath catches in your throat as he leans closer, his face mere inches from yours. The warmth of his body radiates against your trembling form, his scent intoxicatingly rich and masculine. You can feel the raw strength in his presence, the way his chest rises and falls, the way his arms flex as he reaches for you.

“You’re so beautiful,” he breathes, his lips hovering just above yours. “Do you know what it does to me? Seeing you like this? Knowing you’re finally mine?”

Before you can respond, his lips capture yours in a kiss that steals the air from your lungs. It is not gentle. It’s forceful, claiming, a declaration of his dominance. His hand moves to the back of your neck, holding you in place as he deepens the kiss, his other hand gripping your waist and pulling you against his chest.

Your hands press against his chest in an attempt to push him away, but it’s futile. His chest is solid, the muscles beneath the silk unyielding. You feel the raw power in his body, a strength that both intimidates and overwhelms you.

“Stop,” you whisper against his lips, your voice trembling, but he doesn’t pull away. If anything, your resistance only seems to fuel his desire.

“Stop?” he repeats, his voice low and laced with frustration as he finally pulls back. His dark eyes bore into yours, the hunger in them burning brighter than ever. “Why do you keep running from me, Y/N? I am your husband now. Your king. You belong to me.”

Tears well in your eyes, but you force them back, refusing to let him see you cry. “Please,” you whisper, your voice cracking. “I—I can’t—”

“FUCK, YN.”

He screams and you flinch, for a moment as he hears his voice through the walls of this chamber, he almost feels bad as he stares at you

You’re so terrified, a crying mess, but God knows, it’s only turning him on more.

Why are you so fucking frustrating?

His jaw clenches, the muscles in his neck tightening as he stares down at you. His gaze flickers to your trembling hands, your heaving chest, and then back to your tear-filled eyes. For a moment, something unreadable flashes across his face—hurt, perhaps, or maybe just irritation.

“I’ve given you everything,” he says, his voice cold now, but still laced with that obsessive edge. “I’ve built a kingdom for you. Killed for you. And yet you still flinch when I touch you.”

You don’t respond, unable to find the words.

His hand moves to your waist again, sliding around to the small of your back as he pulls you against him. His other hand trails up your arm, his touch light but possessive. The contrast between his strength and his touch sends a chill down your spine.

“You’re so delicate,” he murmurs, his lips brushing against the shell of your ear. “So fragile. But you’re mine. Do you understand that, Y/N?”

You shake your head slightly, tears spilling down your cheeks. “No,” you whisper. “I don’t want this. I never wanted this.”

His grip tightens for a moment, his jaw clenching as he exhales sharply. The air between you grows colder, the tension suffocating.

“You’ll learn,” he says finally, his voice low and dangerous. “You’ll learn to love me. To need me. Because no one else will ever have you.”

He leans in again, his lips brushing against your neck this time. You feel the heat of his breath, the light scrape of his teeth against your skin, and you shudder.

But then, he stops.

For a long moment, the room is silent except for the sound of your uneven breathing. He pulls back, his eyes scanning your tear-streaked face. His expression hardens, and he lets out a low growl of frustration.

“You’re not ready,” he mutters, more to himself than to you. “Not yet.”

His hands fall away from you, and he steps back, his jaw tight and his eyes dark with barely-contained frustration. “I could take you right now,” he says, his voice cold. “But that wouldn’t satisfy me. Not like this.”

You stare at him, unsure whether to feel relief or dread.

He exhales sharply, running a hand through his disheveled hair as he glares at you. “You insult me with your fear, Y/N,” he says, his voice low and venomous. “But you’ll come to me willingly one day. You’ll beg for my touch.”

He turns abruptly, his dark robes swirling around him as he moves toward the door. Before leaving, he pauses, his hand on the handle.

“Remember this, Y/N,” he says without looking back. “You’re mine. In this life and the next.”

The door shuts behind him with a finality that makes your knees buckle. You collapse onto the bed, trembling, your mind spinning with fear and confusion.

The silence of the room is deafening, but it doesn’t give you no comfort. You know this isn’t the end—merely the beginning of a life trapped in the clutches of a man whose obsession burns hotter than any love ever could.

[bengals-barnesbabe]

“Thank You TikTok” Masterlist

~ a series of text imagines between you and Joe all inspired by random TikTok videos ~

Started: 12 September 2024

Last Updated: 18 December 2024

˖⁺‧₊˚ ˚₊‧⁺˖✮✮˖⁺‧₊˚ ˚₊‧⁺˖

fluff - 🌞 smut - 🌚 mix - 🌗 angst - ☄️

most popular - 🌙 newest - ⚡️ request - 💫

i. booktok ~ ever since he downloaded TikTok, Joe’s learnt a lot more about his beautiful bookworm 🌗

ii. say high ~ Joe takes part in some recreational activities and tries (and fails) to hide it from those who know him the best 🌗💫

iii. the real afterparty ~ y/n comes across a TikTok of a bride and groom doing a wardrobe change together, so naturally, she asks her fiance his opinion 🌚

iv. happy weight ~ nothing says a great relationship like two people falling in love while getting fat together, well that’s what TikTok says 🌖

v. pay attention ~ cons to working with your man... he's you're a distraction 🌞

vi. come home ~ it’s been a while since you’ve seen your man, so you left him a present🌒

vii. how that shit tastes ~ they say it's a man's drink so you've never tried it, so you ask your man about his drink of choice 🌗

viii. you like that ~ inspired by another TikTok, Joe compiles a list of things he likes about you🌖

ix. babies ~ you tell your husband about your daughter's supermarket antics, and he gets baby fever? 🌖

x. heroes & princes ~ everyone makes mistakes, even great boyfriends but especially if he has Tee and Ja’Marr as friends 🌞

xi. roses ~ you have a new favorite song and a certain TikTok gives you an idea on how to introduce it to your man 🌚

xii. you're enough ~ you and Joe feel losses hard, so you try your best to make him feel better after this one 🌖

xiii. i can fix her ~ you end up on Joe's fyp for the worst reason possible ☄️

xiv. im a fan ~ Joe finds your secret TikTok account in the best way possible 🌖

xv. it's just a trend ~ you participate in a certain dance trend with a song Joe does not like ☄️ 🌖

xvi. hey shawty ~ you watched a TikTok on how to domesticate your boyfriend, let's see how he does ☄️🌞

xvii. treat me ~ despite always receiving royalty treatment from your boyfriend, you decide to tease him with one of your favorite songs🌚

xviii. ruined me ~ Joe ruined you for all men, this is how he reacts when you tell him 🌗

xix. hey daddy ~ in order to keep your relationship fresh, you do what all couples do... send each other ridiculous pick up lines 🌘

xx. boyfriend blindness ~ your boyfriend becomes a comedian, so you have to show him who he's playing with 🌖

xxi. mini gossip girl ~ your daughter comes home and spills everything about her dad's life 🌞

xxii. daddy duties ~ Joe's left alone for more than a few hours with his boys and chaos ensues 🌞

xxiii. mini gossip girl 2 ~ your daughter is at it again, but this time it works out in Joe's favor🌖

xxiv. talkin nonsense ~ relationships should be fun, especially when you both are on the same level 🌘

xxv. speechless ~ you sent your friend Joe some messages that were not for him to see 🌖

xxvi. mini gossip girl 3 ~ now older, your daughter's mouth reveals some truths she was not ready for 🌖

xxvii. bye week ~ Joe gets caught lying to his pregnant wife 🌖

xxviii. wait, pause ~ you and joe are in the middle of a fight, but he has some tea to spill 🌗☄️💫

xxix. we listen and we don't judge ~ Joe has an idea, Joe regrets his idea 🌖☄️💫

xxx. just friends ~ 🌗💫

updates about twice a week🪷

requests to join this series are open! just send me a quote or link to a video and your fav pic of Joe (along with anything else you desire) to be included!

[moamidzyism]

one for the road (h.kk + k.th)

ʚ♡⃛ɞ another tale of boy likes girl... but so does his best friend.

fluff + angst ౨ৎ ୨୧ huening kai x fem!reader x kang taehyun, rockstar!au, college!au, suggestive featuring all members of txt, all of itzy, wonbin from riize, yunjin from le sserafim, ningning from aespa, and huening lea started. sep 1 ended. status. ongoing posting schedule. sundays, tuesdays, thursdays, saturdays [masterlist • reblogs + feedback appreciated]

event masterlist

profiles: protagonists and friends

i. opening sequence ii. it could be fun iii. the battle begins iv. 365 party girl v. lea's fan club and others vi. party animals (written; 749 words) vii. slut acknowledging viii. score! ix. twice as hard x. ayahuasca in bali xi. sucks to suck! xii. the plot thickens (written; 781 words) xiii. round of eight xiv. relationships r hard xv. the most wonderful time of the yearxvi. project partners (written; 1122 words) xvii. which could mean anything xviii. busy busy beesxix. crazier things have happened xx. party of the century (written + smau; 2119 words) xxi. the girls are fighting xxii. the end of an era (written; 1008 words) xxiii. the whole house sad xxiv. is this fucking play about us? xxv. weird n good xxvi. care xxvii. cherry xxviii. tiny moves (written; 1551 words) xxix. sinners (written; 910 words) xxx. real love baby

bonus chapter: so what had happened was? (written)

comment or send an ask to join the taglist for this series! fill out this form to join my permanent taglist! author's note: if you saw the first iteration of this series, no you didn't! this is part of my college au series~ also disclaimer: all depictions of any idols in this are fictional, for story telling purposes only. every idol included in this i love and i do not feel negatively about them !

[faeriekit]

Health and Hybrids (XXIII)👽👻💚

[I can't remember the original prompt posters  for the life of me but here's a mashup between a cryptid!Danny, presumed-alien!Danny, dp x dc, and the prompt made the one body horror meat grinder fic.]

🖤Chapter navigation can be found here🖤 Click to browse previous updates.

💚 Ao3 Is here for all parts 💚 (now featuring mediocre mouseover translations, only available on a computer)

Where we last left off... J'onn broke the news that Danny thinks he's going to be forced into combat in exchange for his medical care. Everyone disliked that™.

Trigger warnings for this story:  body horror | gore | post-dissection fic | dehumanization (probably) |  my nonexistent attempts at following DC canon. On with the show.

💚👻👽👻💚

COME GET YOUR NEW ART HERE 💥🍳!!💥 IT'S FIBERCRAFT!!Shoutout to @rainbowbeansprout for crocheting a fic accurate injured ghost Danny!! That's outstanding!!

💚👻👽👻💚

So, Wally broke all of the bones in his legs yesterday.

Which is…not ideal. Still. He’s pretty used to it at this point, though, and he’s already mostly healed.

It’s just that. Well.

…The rest of healing is kind of…time-consuming.

So Wally’s in basketball shorts and a mask and a t-shirt he’d started using as pajamas when he was in college and he’s on the med floor of the Watchtower, and yet another physical therapist is helping him bend his leg back and forth, back and forth, back and forth, because he’d tripped in the middle of the Speedforce and busted everything hip-down.

So. (Back, and forth. Back, and forth. Back…) This sucks.

“Do we have to do this every time?” Wally asks, as if there isn’t a team of medical professionals kept on hand to deal with Superpower-wrought Super Medical Problems.

“Do you have to shatter your legs every time?” the PT asks back wryly, which, hey! The pressure pressing up against his bare foot is an additional stressor to the sass. “Bend this more for me, Flash. You can do it.”

Wally grumbles, and pretends the angle his leg is bending at doesn’t make him wince. Wow is he going to have to build his flexibility back up again.

The physical therapy room looks just like any other gym, basically; a lot of squishy mats in playful colors, a lot of grippy tape; a LOT of wipeable vinyl surfaces that can be sanitized at a moment’s notice. It smells kind of weird and plasticky and kind of like alcohol cleaner.

It’s not his favorite room in the Watchtower, but, eh. It could be way worse. What’s unusual is the whirrr of the door opening and closing in one of the private care rooms for another patient, since, you know...HIPAA and all that. Wally assumes. Or is it costume confidentiality once you leave Earth's atmosphere...?

Usually everyone knows who’s stopping in for PE through the sheer power of the Justice League gossip groupchats. (There’s at least nine. Wally’s in four of them. He aspires to be in two more by April.) There hasn’t been a big fight that requires long-term medical care in a while, and there’s no one Wally can think of who’d need this kind of recovery.

Something’s buzzing at the outside of his awareness, though. It sounds kind of…

Wally perks up. “Hey, the alien kid’s here!”

The PT holding Wally up at the waist hums. Her name is Cindy, and judging from their previous conversations, she thinks that Wally is the dumbest man alive. “There’s a million of those, Flash. Which one?”

“The one who bit Superman,” Wally adds.

Judging by the face Cindy makes, this clarifies nothing.

“Most recently,” Wally stresses, carefully not wincing as his leg gets stretched out again, only to be pulled back into position as tightly as before. “OW. Cindy, you’re killing me.”

Cindy makes a strangled noise. She asks: “What, again?” which is how Wally remembers that he got torn back out of the time stream not all that long ago, and it may be a big gauche to joke about your own death with the people who care about it.

Whoops. Wally winces. “…Nevermind?”

The other PTs make various fussy and annoyed noises, but the alien kid is wheeled onto the other side of the medical floor’s only gym. (The actual training floors are on another level. Wally wishes he was there. Alone.)

(Without four PTs clinging to his legs at all times.)

Wally waves. It’s a nice enough gesture, and now that the alien-phantasm-turned-flesh-and-blood-boy is more physically embodied than he used to be, the boy even deigns to carefully wave back.

The kid’s PTs—Wally thinks at least one of them is from the team that supervises Bart and his super-powered-leg-problems—end up encouraging the alien kid’s chair round to the soft mats where the kid can lay down. He ends up in the exact same position Wally is—horizontal on the floor, legs forcibly pinwheeled by enthusiastic but firm PTs.

Wally can physically feel the kid’s astonishment and discontentment buzzing in the air as he figures out what’s being done to him. Wally can’t help but laugh.

The kid angles his head towards the speedster. His face still looks—well, it looks…bad. It looks bad, unhealed and still threatening to weep neon green body fluids; there’s a wet, living crack running up and down his face that makes eye contact kind of hard. His hands are all spidery—this kid can probably hold and grip things, but the previous breakage have left his hands a little too easy to splay, a little too oddly-angled. He’s too thin to keep himself fully upright for long. When he looks at you, his eyes shake like a poorly lined-up television signal.

Martian Manhunter had said that he’d once looked like a healthy, happy human child. His current form is a reflection of the injuries he’d experienced since.

...What a thing for a kid to go through. Wally wouldn’t wish this sort of injury on anyone.

“­Alright, up you go,” the PT above him—Rhys, Wally remembers at the very last second—orders, and Wally is prompted to let the man help him back upright. “Over to the bars for you. You think your legs are up to bearing that kind of weight as you try out walking?”

“…Sure,” Wally lies to Rhys. It’ll be fine. Probably. By the time he gets over there, his legs might have already speed-healed by then. “Hand me the—?”

“Yeah, yeah, here’s the crutches. Don’t destroy yourself trying to make this happen, okay?”

So Wally gets set up at the glorified playground equipment in his least restrictive gym clothes, one long iron bar under one arm, and one long iron bar under the other. Two full-size physical therapists spot him as the speedster completes the most strenuous task available to him at the moment: walking across a very short distance without putting his full weight on his legs.

Wally puts one shaking leg in front of the other. The steps are slow. The urge to zoom to the end of the little bowling lane he’s stuck in—and therefore shatter his legs under the speedforce, again—is irresistibly temping.

Healing sucks. And Wally’s even got the longer end of the stick.

In the end, Wally sticks the landing. He is unreasonably sweaty. He is miserable. But he makes it to the end. Every one of the witnessing PTs applauds as if this is a great success. It’s literally not. It’s the inevitable result of pushing himself too far for the third time this year.

A question buzzes through the air, fluffing through Wally’s hair and the little fine hairs up and down his body. It’s nothing but inquisitive—whatareyoudoing whatareyoudoing?

Wally lets the PT maneuver a chair underneath him. It gives him enough breathing room to turn his upper torso, and he ends up catching the eye of the little alien kid in the corner. He’s sat on a yoga ball, two members of his medical team and one of the kids’ PTs trying to get his attention back to his exercises.

“Hey,” Wally realizes suddenly. “Your casts are gone!”

The kids’ legs are actually bare, which Wally’s never seen before. They’re twiggy, sure, stretched taut over a bone frame, and discolored and pale, but they’re legs. Wally hadn’t even known the alien had possessed legs until he’d formed a physical body months and months ago.

“Dude, that’s great!”

Happy/smug/proud vibrates through the room, making Wally’s teeth buzz. The kid smiles through a half-split lip, and bounces on the yoga ball ever so slightly.

“Good,” the kid says, surprising Wally, his PTs, and the kid’s usual medical team. He was talking already?! He thought J’onn had said—

“Hurt?” the boy asks, concern/concern flooding through the air. Oh. Right. He’s probably here for his busted legs; it would make sense that by virtue of the setting, Wally would be injured too.

And, sure, Wally busted his legs, but he at least heals with all the swiftness of the speedforce. “Meh.” Wally waves off the question. “I’m fine. It’ll be quick for me; some rehab and some lunch and a few days off, and I’ll be in shipshape.”

Wait. Wally’s eyes scrunches up. Is using wordplay appropriate with this kid…?

“Pain?” the kid asks, and turned his attention to the closest member of his medical team. “He pain?”

The medical professional sighs, which finally clues Wally in that the man is no longer masked. Hey, the kid is out of medical isolation! “The Flash has his own medication, thankfully. His doctors know what to do.”

The kid frowns. He doesn’t get it. He looks at Wally, and he looks at the staffer, who shrugs. “It’s the usual indicator word he uses for pain medication. He’s wondering if you’re hurt enough to need some.”

Wally hums. On one hand, it’s sweet that the alien kid is worried about him. It’s a huge step upwards from the alien who spent all his time hiding in abandoned meeting rooms and occasionally biting Superheroes.

On the other hand, the kid doesn’t just look worried that Wally might not be getting care; he looks scared.

Something happened to this kid. Something he can't shake off.

Wally breathes in, and breathes out.

—And breathes in sharply when Cindy starts wiggling his feet. She doesn’t respond at all to his glare, because she is a professional, and he is not a big baby of a superhero.

Mean.

“I’m fine,” Wally finally responds, trying to alleviate the kid’s concerns through sheer vibes-telepathy alone. Who knows if it’s working, but it makes Wally feel better about trying at the very least. “I’ve got my own team to fix me up, and they do a good job of taking care of me. Even if they’re bullying me at my most vulnerable.”

“Anything for you, boss,” Cindy volleys back cheerfully. “Gimme your other leg.”

The tension in the air slowly dissipates. The kid doesn’t stop shooting occasional looks at the unadorned, half-out-of-uniform Flash, but he does let Bart’s little PT team get to working on stretching out his previously-bound now-physical legs and getting him upright—if only for a few seconds at a time, balanced precariously by humans who actually touch his back and arms and hips and legs.

Wally’s session wraps up before the kid’s does. He’s not in any rush. He gets onto the walking crutches Rhys leaves out for his temporary use and lopes over to watch, occasionally hooting and applauding when the kid pulls off something no one’d been sure he could do.

The double handed high-five Wally offers him at the end is punctuated with shaky eye contact, two working hands, and a green-threaded beaming grin.

*

Diana cheerfully digs into her kebab lunch, plastic cutlery pushed to their maximum limit before threatening to break under her prodigious strength. “You know, Batman,” she starts, beaming, “My charge gave me his name the other day.”

Bruce sets down his muenster-ham-and-whole-wheat sandwich mid-bite. “I’ll need to hear everything,” he says immediately, to which Diana tuts.

“Oh, Batman, I could never break his trust like that,” she says, sweet as anything. She finesses a bite of lamb from the skewer and takes a neat bite.

“…Wonder Woman,” Batman says.

“Hm?”

“Diana.”

“Is there something you needed, Bruce?” Diana asks, pleased with herself. There genuinely is very little that could be done with a vague description of a now-altered human form and a first name alone; besides, she genuinely does feel that hearing the boy’s name come from others’ lips would be upsetting for him. Danny offered his name to Diana alone, and so it shall remain until hers alone he offers it to others.

Still, she is not above bragging.

“I need information.” Bruce’s face underneath his mask is stone.

Diana dips a second chunk of lamb into a little container of tzatziki sauce. “Well, then,” she points out, “Shouldn’t you spend some time building rapport with my charge, then?”

The feared Batman of Gotham, father of a half-dozen highly trained heroes, bristles like a wet cat. The demeanor is almost comical. He knows what he looks like to non-Gothamite children. He knows his suit will make this fight for common familiarity an uphill battle.

Diana smugly works through her lunch and ignores Bruce’s silent brooding as he does the same.

[rollingsins]

all hers, epilogue

part i | part ii | part iii | part iv | part v | part vi | part vii | part viii | part ix | part x | part xi | part xii | part xiii | part xiv | part xv | part xvi | part xvii | part xviii | part xix | part xx | part xxi | part xxii | part xxiii | part xxiv | part xxv | part xxvi | epilogue

summary: Tara and YN try their hand at some healthier habits.

warnings: (+18), Tara is Ghostface, mention of violence. Smut.

word count: 5.3k

a/n: it's been a wild ride. thanks for all who have come along. all hers is over, but I will still be writing gf!tara drabbles in the same universe - maybe some college oneshots in the drabble files. Until then: enjoy the final chapter! :)) 

As the days turn into weeks and the weeks turn into months, slowly, the pain subsides.

Your normal? It’s potentially forever gone. It shouldn’t be a surprise, at this point.

Once you’d just been a teenage girl, crazily in love with another girl.

Who turned out to be a serial killer. Who’d somehow turned you into a killer.

Who’d made you cry, and laugh and love harder than you’d ever loved in your entire life.

In the grand scheme of things - the scar on your belly is probably the least of your worries.

But that doesn’t stop you toiling on it.

It always seems to be the way, doesn’t it? Worrying about the things that don’t really matter.

You worry nonetheless.

“It’s pretty,” Tara murmurs in comfort when you’re staring at yourself in the bathroom mirror, shirt lifted slightly, eyebrows pinched in dismay.

It’s not pretty.

It’s wiry and long and stems from the tip of your bellybutton down to your navel.

“It’s hideous.” You say, voice a little fraught.

It’s hideous and permanent.

You’ll never be able to wear a bikini again. You’ll never be able to take your shirt off again without being reminded of it.

Of her.

The woman who had tormented you for weeks.

The woman who you’d tormented for weeks. The woman whose son you’d taken from her. The woman who’d repaid you in mental scars to last a lifetime.

A belly scar to last a lifetime.

“It’s beautiful,” Tara says, pressing her lips to your shoulder, “It means you’re alive.”

She squeezes your hips, then lifts her own shirt.

“And it matches mine,” She says, eyes shimmering, “Matching knife wounds. Like soulmates.”

You snort.

Because of course Tara tries to make stab wounds romantic.

But to her credit - it works.

Your heart sings.

Soulmates.

Because that’s what you are.

“Who needs a wedding ring, right?” You say, biting your lip, insecurities suddenly fading.

Tara entwines your hands, lifts the back of your hand to her lips.

“You do,” Tara says, “And you’ll have one. Soon. I promise.”

You pull back.

“Not before-“

“College,” Tara says, rolling her eyes, “I know, babe.”

You press a lingering kiss to her cheek.

“I just don’t want to be one of those couples who rush into marriage and fall apart the moment they turn twenty-one.”

“That won’t be us,” Tara whines, and then she pouts, “Plenty of high school sweethearts get married right after high school.”

You groan.

“Tara, we talked about this already-“

“I know,” Tara says, voice hasty, “I’m just excited. I want you to be Mrs. Carpenter already.”

“Mrs Carpenter, huh?” You say, ignoring the fluttery rush that blooms through you at the thought, “And what if I want you to take my name?”

Tara cocks a brow and considers this.

“I don’t care, babe, I’ll change my name to garden gnome if you want, as long as I get to be your wife.” She says after a moment.

You smile. Squeeze her hand.

“You’d suit it,” You tease, “But Mrs and Mrs Carpenter has a nice ring to it.”

Tara tilts her head hopefully.

“So, maybe a high school wedding?” She asks, voice sly, “Mrs Carpenter would look good on your college application forms.”

You press a warm kiss to her lips.

“There’s no rush, babe,” You tell her, “And I need to save up. Get you a pretty ring.”

Tara squints.

“I’m proposing first,” She says immediately, “You promised, babe.”

You roll your eyes.

“Yes, you baby, I know.”

Tara tilts her head, seemingly satisfied.

You press a kiss to her lips. She’s cured your insecurity, for now.

But a new feeling gnaws at the bottom of your stomach.

Dread.

As you realize what comes next. You try to keep your voice light. Lighter than the heavy pit at the bottom of your stomach.

“Come on,” You say, trying and failing not to sound anxious, “It’s time for therapy.”

-

Dr Colmann is a five foot woman with long, flowing blonde hair and piercing blue eyes.

Her office is bland. Gray walls. Little decoration.

Like she wants your attention on her.

You’d met her first, a few weeks ago. Like a pterodactyl scouting out a potential nest for her baby.

Your situation is tricky - there’s only so much you can tell her.

And you’re no doctor - but even you know surely it’s impossible to diagnose an illness without knowing all the symptoms.

“I want to get something out of the way,” You’d said after a long moment, clearing your throat.

Dr Colmann had looked over at you, pen tilted and ready to write. With all the intimidation of a woman who was about to change your life.

“I’m aware my girlfriend is…” You had paused, trying to think of the right word, “A little… possessive.”

Dr Colmann said nothing.

“I know that, and that’s why we’re looking for help.” You’d bitten your lip, nervous, “And I’m also sure the first thing you’re going to tell me is to leave her. But that isn’t going to happen. I love her. And she loves me. We’re looking for coping methods. I want to help her feel secure. But I will not break up with her.”

Dr Colmann had just listened.

Her silence, if possible, made you all the more nervous.

“She’s not abusive or anything,” You’d clarified, hastily, “She doesn’t hurt me. She just gets… jealous.”

“And what does she do when she gets jealous?” She’d asked, finally breaking her silence.

“Um-“ You’d said, voice a little high. Memories flashed before you like nightmares and you’d been entirely grateful your thoughts couldn’t be seen.

“She lashes out. Not at me. At other people.”

Dr Colmann scribbled something in her notepad. Long, wiry, black inky marks.

You’d squinted, trying to make up the words, but she’d looked back at you before you’d had the chance.

“Do you have any examples?” Dr Colmann prompted.

You paused.

You had a fair few of those.

None of which you could disclose.

“Little things,” You said, “I used to play soccer. But I had to quit because Tara thought some of the girls might become interested in me.”

You chew your lip.

“And… I was just in the hospital. She got jealous of the nurse.”

“The nurse?”

“She tried to… give me a sponge bath and Tara freaked out.”

Dr Colman stared.

You swallowed. The words out loud somehow seemed even more ridiculous than they are.

“How did she freak out?” Dr Colmann asked.

“She tried to…” You swallowed again, “She didn’t want the nurse to touch me again. Not even to change my bandages.”

Dr Colmann pursed her lips.

“I told her that was stupid,” You’d said, hurriedly, “But when she gets like that, nothing can stop her. She calls it The Rage.”

Dr Colmann tilted her head.

“The Rage?”

You’d nodded.

“Yeah. It’s like… it’s like something takes over her. Like a demon or something. Something she can’t control.”

Dr Colmann had closed her notebook. She’d looked over at you, surveying. You’d blinked back, eyes wide, surely screaming help me, or something to that effect.

Then, she smiled.

“When can I meet her?”

-

You’re no less nervous the second time.

You greet Dr Colmann with a tight smile, draw Tara down into the seat next to you. Your knee bobs up and down, unable to quell the tide of anxiety rising deep within you.

Please, you think, a little desperate, please help her.

As Tara and Dr Colmann exchange pleasantries, you blink. Too many times.

Like you don’t know how this is going to go. The worst case scenario flashes before you: Dr Colmann in a body bag.

Tara in a jail cell.

You in a jail cell.

Never able to touch her, or hold her, or kiss her ever again.

You need therapy, the little voice in your head leers, judgmental, not being with Tara is worse than a woman dying?

“So, Tara,” Dr Colmann says, when you’re all seated. With all the cheeriness of someone who isn’t aware you’re imagining her as a corpse.

“Tell me about The Rage.”

An awkward silence settles over the three of you.

Tara shoots a hesitant look towards you.

You squeeze her hand and nod.

Then, she looks over to Dr Colmann.

“It’s an anger thing,” Tara mumbles, not looking her in the eye, “I’ve seen shrinks before, none of them can fix it.”

Dr Colmann tilts her head.

“And what did these other doctors do?” She asks, “Anger management classes? Medication?”

“Both,” Tara says, “Nothing ever worked.”

Dr Colmann hums.

“I’ve read through your file, Tara,” She says gently, “Fourteen different therapists across the state. That’s a lot of doctors. Especially for such a young girl.”

Tara assesses her. Her face is tight, guarded. Like she’s not sure if she can quite trust her.

Dr Colmann scribbles something in her notepad.

“Lots of kids have problems with anger,” Says Dr Colmann, “But anger is just a symptom, like any other emotion. From what YN has told me, anger isn’t the problem. Sharing is the problem.”

Tara frowns.

“Plenty of children have issues with sharing,” Dr Colmann continues, “Usually, it’s the parents who stamp it out. But not always. I see in your file your sister used to bear the brunt of most of these anger issues.”

Tara folds her arms.

“Not always,” She says.

“But most of the time,” Says Dr Colmann, pointedly. She squints, reading through her notes, “It says here you attacked your sister when you were four years old because she tried to play with one of your Barbie dolls. Then again, later that week for taking a bigger slice of pie.”

“Four year olds are allowed to have boundaries, aren’t they?” Says Tara, defensively, “That Barbie was mine.”

“And YN? She’s yours too?” Asks Dr Colmann, evenly.

Tara blinks.

“She’s my girlfriend.” Tara says, diplomatically. The question is a trap, one she’s determined to avoid.

Dr Colmann tilts her head.

“And you don’t like when other people play with her? Is that right?”

Anger flickers through Tara’s features. You bite your lip, and squeeze her hand. Try to keep her grounded.

“I suppose not.” Says Tara, voice tight.

“YN told me about the nurse,” Dr Colmann says, “And the soccer team. You made her quit? Why?”

Tara looks over to you, a little helpless.

“I didn’t make her quit,” She says, slowly, like she’s being very careful with her words, “I just… suggested it. Strongly.”

Dr Colmann makes a noise of dissatisfaction.

Then returns to madly scribbling on her notepad.

Tara frowns again, looking self-conscious.

Dr Colmann looks up.

“And what if someone on the soccer team had been interested?” Dr Colmann asks, “What would you have done?”

You avert your gaze.

Kill them, is the answer.

It’s already happened.

More than once.

Tara shifts.

“I wouldn’t like it.” Tara says.

“No reasonable person would like that, Tara,” Dr Colmann prods, gently, “But what would you do?”

“I don’t know,” Says Tara, sounding aggravated, “Not let her see them anymore.”

“And do you think that’s an appropriate request?” Dr Colmann asks, “Do you really think you should have control over who your girlfriend associates with?”

Tara narrows her eyes.

“YN would do it for me,” She says, “We’re in a relationship. Relationships are about compromise.”

“That isn’t compromise, Tara,” Dr Colmann says, gently, “That’s you demanding she do something and her complying. Do you not trust her?”

Tara blinks.

She looks over to you, then back to Dr Colmann.

“Of course I do,” She says, voice soft, “It’s other people I don’t trust.”

“And what do you think these other people are going to do?” Dr Colmann asks.

“I don’t know.” Tara says, voice small, as if she’s never really thought that far ahead.

She looks like a little lost puppy. You want to wrap her in your arms and tell her you’ll never talk to anybody else again if that’s what she wants.

You resist.

Healthy wife, happy life, is what you tell yourself instead.

Dr Colmann’s face washes with sympathy.

“Jealousy is pointless, Tara,” Dr Colmann says, voice gentle, “Worrying is pointless. If YN is going to cheat on you, she’ll cheat on you. If she’s going to leave you, she’ll leave you. There’s nothing you - or The Rage can do about it.”

Tara blinks.

“I-“ She says, as if Dr Colmann has just spit in her face “What?”

Dr Colmann sits forward in her seat. Her notebook discarded.

“What you need to do - is trust. Your girlfriend loves you. Clearly. She wouldn’t be here with you if she didn’t.”

Tara frowns.

“You’re afraid of losing her,” Dr Colman says, eyebrows knit, as if Tara is a particularly difficult puzzle she can’t quite get her head around, “But why? We’ve already established she loves you. She wouldn’t be here with you if she didn’t.”

Tara blinks. You soothe a finger across the back of her hand. Resist the urge to press a kiss to her pretty forehead.

You let the doctor do the work.

��Have other people you loved left you, Tara?” Dr Colmann prods, gently.

Tara’s shoulders tense.

Dr Colmann waits a moment.

“Who?” She asks, "Your Mom? Your Dad?”

“Both.” Tara says, voice small, “They both left me.”

Your heart aches.

If you could - you’d sucker punch the two of them right now.

It isn’t an option. Instead - you grip her hand tight, offer her a small smile of encouragement as she speaks.

Tara swallows.

“My Dad tried to fix me,” Tara says, “For years. I was an angry kid. They could never figure out what was wrong with me. Eventually he just… gave up. He walked out on me and My Mom and my sister. Left us, just like that.”

“That must have been very traumatic,” Says Dr Colmann, “How old were you?”

“Thirteen.” Says Tara, “My Mom never left. I mean, she did. She threw herself into work to cope with my Dad leaving. She started going on these long business trips. But she never officially left.”

Dr Colmann offers her a small smile, “And that’s why you get so jealous, is it Tara? You’re afraid YN will leave you? Like your Mom? Like your Dad?”

Tara hesitates.

She looks down at her hands.

“Yes.” She says, after a long moment.

“Baby,” You say, voice hushed. Tara squeezes your fingers.

Dr Colmann hums.

“That makes a lot of sense, Tara,” She says, her voice kind, “That gives us something to work with.”

She closes her notepad, offers the two of you a reassuring smile.

“Your anger - we can work through that. We can figure out some coping methods. But the main problem here isn’t anger, Tara. It’s trust. I know you said you trust YN but you’re still scared. Deep down you’re scared she’ll abandon you, just like your parents did. We need to work through that.”

“Is it something we can fix?” You ask, a tad desperate.

You’d lost count of the amount of times you’d promised Tara you’d never leave her.

And each time it seemed to fall on deaf ears the moment The Rage was invoked.

“We can try,” Dr Colmann says, “I can try. And it’ll take some hard work. But Tara, it’ll only work if you’re open to it. If you’re open to changing. Is that something you can do?”

Tara thinks for a moment.

And then she nods.

“Yeah,” She says, “I want to do it. I want to be different. For you, babe,”

She squeezes your hand. Thinks hard.

“And for me too."

-

You’re silent the entire way home.

Tara too.

She grips your hand so hard you think it might fall off at one point. It’s only when she pulls into the driveway, she speaks.

“I didn’t scare you off, did I?” She asks, chewing her lip as she looks over at you, “With all my… problems.”

“Never, baby,” You say immediately.

You lean over to kiss her cheek. She relaxes.

“I’m going to need a lot of therapy, aren’t I?” She says, sounding worried.

You press another warm kiss to her cheek.

“I’ll be with you the whole way,” You assure, “I'm not going anywhere, Tara.”

You hesitate.

“You know I’m not like your Dad, right?” You say, “Or your Mom. I’m not going to leave you.”

Tara offers you a small smile.

“I know, babe,” She says, “At least in theory, I know.”

You press a kiss to her lips.

“I guess I’ll just have to remind you then,” you say, “Everyday. I love you. You’re stuck with me. I’ll say it until you believe me in theory and in practice.”

Tara rests her forehead against yours.

“Okay,” She says, “And keep saying it after that, okay babe?”

You kiss her.

“Deal.”

-

Your Mom’s still in the hospital.

Her leg had been amputated after the attack, and the procedure hadn’t been easy on her or your Dad. She’d come home after two weeks and then been admitted once more when the wound became infected.

“Are you feeling okay?” You ask her now, chewing your lip, phone pressed to your ear.

Tara finishes up the dishes, setting down the washcloth to nestle in beside you, squeezing your hip comfortingly.

“I’m okay, sweetheart,” She says, “Will you come and visit tomorrow?”

“I’ll be there,” You promise, “Sam is going to pick us up after school.”

“And everything’s alright at the house?” Enquires your Mom.

You were staying at Tara’s place until your parents came back home, a decision that was quickly agreed on, for once.

“Everything’s fine, Mom,” You assure, “Sam’s working now, but she’ll be home in a couple of hours.”

Your Mom hums.

“And Tara’s there with you, isn’t she?” She asks, sounding a little worried, “You’re not alone?”

“Tara’s here,” You say and Tara kisses the back of your neck, “You don’t have to worry, Mom.”

“Is that Tara?” Asks your Dad through the phone, a little gruff, “Can I speak with her?’

“Dad wants to speak to Tara, YN, bye for now,” Says your Mom, “See you tomorrow.”

You barely get out the goodbye before you hear your Dad’s voice once more.

“Tara?” He asks.

“It’s me Dad,” You say, and he makes a noise of vague disappointment.

You roll your eyes.

“We’re fine, thanks for asking.” You say.

“Yes, yes, I heard you speak with Mom,” He assures, “Put Tara on the phone.”

You hand off the phone to your girlfriend and pry yourself out of her grip, busying yourself with playing the leftovers into their containers.

“Hello, Sir,” Says Tara, the way you might speak to the President.

She bobs her head, eyebrows knitting.

“Yes, I did see the 49ers play.”

You huff.

Tara averts her gaze.

“Yes, I did think they played like a bunch of seven year old girls.”

You roll your eyes once more.

Tara’s newfound friendship with your Dad is better than the alternative, at least. You’d lived the alternative.

It hadn’t been much fun.

“We’re okay,” Tara promises, suddenly, “I have every door locked down, alarms set and cameras operating.”

Your Dad murmurs something down the line you can’t hear.

Tara smiles, and then reaches for your hand.

“I’m not letting her out of my sight, Sir, you don’t have to worry,” She says, “I won’t let anyone hurt her. I promise.”

She hangs up not long after.

You should be used to it by now, the flutter in the pit of your stomach every time she gets protective, or calls you hers, but you’re not.

Butterflies cascade through your belly, branching out to the tips of your fingertips where they settle. You curl in around Tara and press your lips to her neck.

She smells good. No perfume, just the tinge of her skin and her coconut body wash.

You squeeze her hips and nip your teeth against the nape of her neck.

“Oh.” Tara sighs as you slip your fingers into the waistband of your jeans. She leans back into your touch, titling your head to capture your lips.

“Really?” She asks, a little excited.

You laugh.

You’d not had sex in a few weeks, hardly in the mood. Your wound aches most days, and the rest are spent really remarkably unsexy, despite Tara’s constant reassurance you’re the most beautiful girl in the world.

She turns in your arms, pressing another kiss to your lips.

“Sam won’t be home for hours,” You murmur against her lips, “Just you and me. The way it should be.”

“Your stomach doesn’t hurt?” She asks, a little soft. Her eyes swim with concern, “We can just watch a movie, if you want?”

You shake your head.

She looks good. Her dark hair pulled back in a ponytail. No makeup, her spill of freckles poignant, her pretty lips pouty and red and kissable.

“I want you, baby,” You murmur, nuzzling your nose to the side of her face, “Do you want me too?”

You don’t have to wait long for a response.

She presses a searing kiss to your lips.

“Do you even have to ask?” She says, biting her lip.

“No,” You smile, “But I want to hear you say it anyway.”

“I want you,” She says, immediately. She’s excited again, you can tell by the way her eyes flicker, “I want you all the time.”

“Come take me then,” You murmur against her mouth.

She doesn’t have to be told twice.

She leads you up the staircase, walking backwards. Her mouth fused to yours, her careful hands roaming every span of skin she can get her hands on.

She helps you onto the bed, far gentler than her usual gig of wild hands and wild lips. Instead, this time she touches you as if you might shatter into a thousand pieces.

You make an annoyed murmur as she pulls your jeans down your legs. It feels like an age, the way she softly untangles the button and the zipper. Her touch is light, so un-Tara.

When she finally pulls your legs from your jeans, you almost cry out of frustration.

“Babe, I’m not going to break.” You tell her, but it falls on deaf ears.

She’s pressing her lips to your thigh, tiny, gentle touches as she pulls your underwear down your legs at a pain-stakingly slow pace.

“Don’t rush me, babe,” She says as you reach down to help her, “And lie back. I don’t want to hurt you.”

“I feel fine,” You say, tilting up to meet her kiss, “Please hurt me.”

Tara huffs, drawing back slightly.

“It’s not fair to say things like that when you know I can’t.” She pouts, “The things I want to do to you will almost certainly rip your stitches.”

Arousal coils deep in your belly.

Then annoyance.

“Now who's not being fair?” It’s your turn to pout.

Tara nudges her lips to your neck.

“I’m going to make love to you, baby-girl,” She promises, her eyes dark, “That’s more than fair.”

You tilt your head up and press a lingering kiss to her lips.

“Besides. If I rip your stitches I think your Dad will have something to say.”

You wrinkle your nose.

“Let’s not talk about my Dad when we’re getting naked, babe,” You suggest.

She hums in agreement.

And then you reach for her shirt.

“Off.”

If she’s going to spend the entire evening getting your underwear down your legs, the least she can do is give you something to look at, you reason.

Your touch is impatient.

You pry off her jeans like there’s a time limit. Strip her of her shirt and her bra until she’s hovering naked above you, making your mouth water.

And suddenly, what little patience you had left is gone.

You rise up, starling her.

“Babe-“ She protests, but you can’t be reasoned with.

You tilt her around, until she’s lying back on the mattress, nudging her bare legs apart with your thighs.

“Too slow, my turn.” You murmur.

Your lips are hungry.

You kiss her, fierce, groaning slightly as your hands get to work. They work down the curve of her hips, to her thighs. You squeeze her, a little rough, and then move your hands to take her nipples between your fingers.

She gasps, her hips involuntarily jerking up towards yours. You detangle yourself from her lips, leaning down to press hot kisses against her neck.

She threads her fingers through your hair, tugging, tugging, as she moves against you. She’s still holding back, being careful not to touch your stomach.

You can tell by the way she’s groaning it’s hard for her.

And so you make it easy.

Your lips move down from her neck to her breasts. You circle each nipple once, then twice, before you’re taking her in your mouth, curling your arms around each of her thighs.

“Baby,” Tara murmurs, “Baby, your stomach-“

You release her nipple with a wet pop and a frown.

“I’m fine, babe.” You say, and it’s true.

It aches, slightly, but it always does nowadays. No matter what you’re doing.

And if it’s her you’re doing, at least the ache is dampened by the forest fire of arousal surging through your veins.

You return to your pilgrimage down her body.

Your lips graze her belly-button, your tongue slips down over the jut of her hips to the crest of her thighs.

She sighs, seemingly satisfied as you slip down further. Moving your body to settle nicely in between her legs.

Then, she tilts her head up, biting her lip.

Her eyes are hesitant, though encompassed with want.

“Tell me if it hurts,” She says, “Tell me and we can stop. Or…re-adjust.”

You nod, impatient.

“Alright babe, I will,” You say, raising an eyebrow, “Can I go down on you now?”

Her cheeks flush red with arousal.

“Please.” She whispers.

She’s beautiful, as ever.

You press your lips against the soft skin of her inner thighs, grazing your lips just gently. You use your tongue to work your way inwards.

Your breath catches in your throat the moment you taste her. Wet, syrupy, bittersweet goodness.

You lick it up, greedy for more. You press your lips to her folds, use your hands to spread her open for you. You lose control of your tongue.

One minute you’re ready to tease, the next, you’ve worked yourself up too much.

Your tongue moves hot across her folds and then down to her entrance. Your top lip brushes her clit and she sings.

A low moan that vibrates through the room.

A moan that indicates it’s been far too long since you’ve touched her like this.

You apologize with your mouth.

Low strokes of your tongue at her entrance. The quiet murmur of your own moan as your tongue moves up to circle her clit.

Lazy, slow, movements.

Then fast.

Like you’re changing your own mind too quickly.

You settle for writing words with your tongue.

babygirl, is what you spell out against her clit.

Your name. Her name. You connect them with a heart.

And then: mine.

Tara lets out a quiet moan as you take her clit between your lips. Sucking gently until her thighs are gripping like iron bars around the side of your head and her nails against your scalp bruise.

You give up on using the alphabet.

You slip two fingers inside her, sighing as she encases you. She’s tight and wet and begging for more.

You give it to her.

Curl your fingers up in just the right way. Lap your tongue over her clit just the way she likes.

And then she’s gasping as she tightens around you. She cries your name in a breathy moan as she cums hard around your fingers and mouth.

It’s always over too quickly, you think briefly as you reluctantly slip out of her. You need to learn patience. You need to learn how to tease.

But there’s something about her, and you don’t know how she does it. You just have to give her what she wants.

She lets out a happy sigh as you climb up her body and press your lips to her forehead.

She’s still a moment, but you know better. She recovers quickly.

In less than a minute she’s shifting.

You groan as your back hits the mattress.

Her hands slip down to your thighs, gripping you like she has an agenda. And she does. You know it by heart.

First, the gentle touch of her lips against your neck.

Then she’s sliding your underwear down your legs.

She kisses your lips, slips her tongue into your mouth for only a moment. And then she’s trailing kisses down your body.

Your chest. Your breasts.

She pays special attention to your nipples. Her eyes locking with yours as she sucks, ever so gently.

Your body feels hot.

You grip her face, holding her in place.

And then she’s nudging out of your grip, dipping down to press her lips to your navel.

She doesn’t kiss your scar, but you can tell she wants to.

She looks up at you, eyes wide and vulnerable as she squeezes your hips.

“You’re beautiful.” She murmurs. She ducks down and presses a kiss to the top of your inner thigh, “You’re perfect. My perfect girl.”

“Tara,” You say, voice a little gravelly, “Baby, please.”

She doesn’t make you wait.

One moment she’s pressing her lips to your thigh. The next, she’s dipping down between your legs. You lean back onto the pillows with a sigh.

Her lips graze.

She kisses your inner thigh.

Drags her tongue over your entrance and you gasp.

Then, her lips are on your clit.

You moan as she snakes a hand around your waist. The other slips between your legs. She teases for only a moment before she’s slipping her fingers inside you. You gasp at the sudden intrusion.

It’s not as though you’re not ready for it.

You’re so wet you’d give her a snorkel if she wasn’t such an experienced sailor.

But she rides your high seas like it’s her full time job.

Lips on your clit, fingers working in and out. She squeezes your hip with her free hand. Her talented mouth is like fire. Dancing around just where you need it most.

You close your eyes and let out a low moan.

She’s being careful.

Gentle.

Loving you like she doesn’t want to hurt you.

You take back the impatience. You take back the need for more, more, more.

Your sweet, loving girlfriend is all you need.

Gentle mouth. Careful tongue.

Her between your legs, working you into oblivion like sex is just a vehicle to express how deeply she loves you.

“Tara.”

You cum with her name on your lips. Her mouth fused around your lips. You cum feeling safe and wanted and needed.

And when she’s done, she climbs back up your body and presses the softest kiss to your lips.

Nestles herself with her head in your chest. Right next to your heartbeat.

Where she should be.

You close your eyes once more.

Thread your fingers through her hair. Press the softest of kisses to her forehead.

And then she looks up at you, her pretty brown eyes shimmering.

“Love you.” She murmurs. She punctuates her words with a kiss.

Your chest is heaving. You allow yourself the moment. Body thrumming with your orgasm, the love of your life pressed tight to your side.

Tara curls into you. She waits a moment, then looks over at you,

“I’m going to be better for you,” She murmurs, “I’ve put you through hell, baby, and I know that. But it all ends now.”

You frown.

“I’m in heaven with you, no matter what you’ve done,” You say, after a quiet moment, “After what we’ve both done. Right or wrong, I love you. And you love me. And that’s all that matters.”

Tara tilts her head to yours.

She takes your lips in a long, searing kiss.

She says what she can’t with words.

You say it too.

And when you pull back, you know she understands.

She’s yours.

And you are undeniably, irrefutably, entirely:

All hers. 

[grugruel]

Masterlist

All my fics are labeled oldest to newest to keep track of how my writing improves!

On requests and asks: I might not write every request im sent, but I appreciate getting them all the same!

I'll write most things if I find the suggestion interesting (supplying me with prompts/ideas/wishes is really helpful).

Consent and appropriate reader age are crucial in my fics, I wont write something that's lacking in either.

And please, if you have any critique feel free to tell me. I really want to improve my writing!🎀

I also really appreciate you guys interacting with- and commenting on my posts!☺️

Personal favs = ⭐️

Angst = 🎭

Fluff = 🎀

Smut = ❗️

Arthur Morgan (RDR2)

Saint, or Sinner. ❗️🎀 XII

Big Iron | bounty hunter!Arthur Morgan x outlaw!f!reader❗️XIV

You've Kissed Me For Less ❗️XXII

Benedict Bridgerton (Bridgerton)

The Artist and the flower ❗️🎀 XX

Bucky Barnes (MCU)

An Affair to Remember | collegue!bucky❓️I

Bad News | dbf!bucky

- Part 1 | Baring Throats❗️🎭⭐️ VII

- Part 2 | Cold Thoughts❗️🎭 VIII

Let the Light in | priest!bucky❗️🎭🎀⭐️IIX

Little bit | roommate!bucky❗️🎭 XI

Movement | mob!bucky ❗️ XIII

Save A Horse | cowboy!bucky❗️🎀 X

The Girl Who Cried Cowboy | dbf!cowboy!bucky❗️🎭⭐️ XV

Your Daddy Know 'bout This? | dbf!cowboy!bucky❗️🎭 XXI

Wicked Game | cop!bucky❗️IX

Cooper Howard/The Ghoul (Fallout)

His little killer ❗️XVII

Say it again ❗️🎀 🎭 ⭐️ XVIII

Quiet on Set | pre-war!Cooper Howard ❗️ XIX

Father Paul Hill (Midnight Mass)

Lust for Vampyr ❗️ III

Rick Sanchez (Rick and Morty)

In progress

Silco (Arcane)

The Game❓️ II

Sleeping With the Enemy | ❗️🎭⭐️ XXVII

Blue Eyes | young!silco x f!reader❗️🎀 XXIII

Jayce (Arcane)

Can you do that for me? | ruined!jayce x f!reader ❗️🎀 🎭 XXII

Taking Care of Her | ruined!jayce x wife!f!reader ❗️🎀 XXV

Viktor (Arcane)

Keeping Him Company | ❗️🎭 XXIV

William Afton (FNAF)

Fun at Fazbear's❗️ IV

Horrific findings, sweet nothings❗️🎭⭐️ V

Princess❗️ VI

[inurnctdreams]

it’s the way you are - l.dh

haechan x fem!reader

genre: fluff, comedy, strangers to lovers, college au, soccer au, smau with a couple of written portions

warnings: dark humour, suggestiveness, lots of swearing, mentions of general frat/college shenanigans (e.g. drinking, smoking etc.), the author’s lack of both fraternity and sporting knowledge lmao, mainly nct but idols from other groups are also here

status: ongoing (updates every saturday!)

y/n suh is going into her second semester of her sophomore year at snu. as a self-proclaimed snu lions fangirl, she can’t believe there’s a new player on the team she hasn’t met yet, especially one as cute and funny as lee donghyuck, who nearly everyone she knows seems to already be friends with. how did she manage to avoid him (even if unintentionally) for almost an entire year and a half? he seems way too good to be true… and then she remembers; he’s in the frat.

taglist (open): @ilovejungwonandhaechan @neozon3nha @sunflowerbebe07 @minkyuncutie @multifandomania @amrqxz @wonbin-truther @livingdoll-hara @gomdoleemyson @sehunniepot

profiles:

the too broke for therapy squad

the mark take a break challenge (impossible) squad

the y/n’s fake older bros (1 real) squad

chapters:

i. HE’S MY HERO

ii. what is yuta putting in their water

iii. you’re a menace to mankind

iv. yay capitalism

iv s. does he not know

v. okay and what’s wrong with jeno?

vi. SO NO YANGY/N??

vii. rawr XD

vii s. alexa play hands up by 2pm

viii. are you starting a freshman babysitting service? (written)

ix. what’s the opposite of slut shaming

x. you’re not okay

xi. bros before hoes and all that

xii. men ain’t shit

xii s. that’s the goal… ha, get it?

xiii. just because you have the tastebuds of a five year old

xiv. rule two of sleepovers: never be the first to fall asleep 😈

xv. y’know they’ll hold you to that

xvi. you KNOW i love bitching

xvii. help they’re flirting on main now 😓

xviii. not a date

xix. normal day at the studio right?

xx. brownies take priority 🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️

xxi. i… was not aware he was doing that

xxii. SHOTS FIRED

xxii s. livin la vida loca 💚

xxiii. i’m not fuelling your ego even more (part-written)

xxiv. i don’t need a degree to be a clothing hanger

xxv. drippin should just hire me at this point

xxvi.

[worst-fictional-father-showdown]

[angel-kyo]

Pay it no mind

Part XXIX

In which reader confesses their feelings to Gojo, but it seems these are not returned (maybe?).

Warnings: reader is on the receiving end of rejection (kinda), and the fact that I'm obsessed with unrequited love is a warning itself.

Previous: Part I, Part II, Part III, Part IV, Part V, Part VI, Part VII, Part VIII, Part IX, Part X, Part XI, Part XII, Part XIII, Part IV, Part XV, Part XVI, Part XVII, Part XVIII, Part XIX, Part XX, Part XXI, Part XXII, Part XXIII, Part XXIV, Part XXV, Part XXVI, Part XXVII, Part XXVIII

----------------------

“Satoru, this is [name]… Of course you know it’s me. Uh, anyway, I know you may not want to see me now, but I’m locked out of my apartment. You still have that spare key, right?... Could you come over?” your voice asked hesitantly. “Or send it with someone if you don’t wanna see me, but…” you sighed, ”I’d like to see you, Satoru. Really. I… I want to see you, okay?... Anyway, give me a call when you get a chance, please.” Silence. “I love you.”

How many times had he listened to that voicemail? Gojo was not sure, especially not now that time seemed to have slowed down for him.

He had come to the hospital as fast as he could, but he had not been able to see you yet. He had learned from Ieiri, who had made a brief stop by his side, that you were still in the operating room when he arrived. He wondered how bad your injuries were, what had happened in your apartment, who had hurt you, but above all, would you recover?

Yes, they will. They have to, Satoru told himself.

But it did not ease his concerns that Ieiri had not come back to give him an update in a while, or so it appeared to him, and those doctors and nurses parading in front of him from one side to another had not told him anything either.

What was taking them so long? Why had they brought you to that hospital? Shoko had explained to him you had been taken to the nearest hospital, and they had contacted her since she figured as your GP.

“I did some practices here in the past. The personnel are capable. They are in good hands,” Ieiri said after briefing Gojo on your current situation.

“Wouldn’t it be better if you treated them?” he asked without looking at her. Shoko could see just enough of that flash of blue behind Gojo's shades to know his eyes, as his mind, could not focus on anything now.

Crumpled shirt, wet hair...

She gave him a quick look before focusing on their surroundings. The hospital staff in white and blue threads, the other people waiting like them, and the persistent smell of antiseptic.

“I saw them,” she was talking about your injuries, “It wasn’t a curse, but I’ll do whatever I can as soon as I get a moment alone with them.”

It hung heavy over Ieiri that she had not been allowed into the operating room immediately after she arrived. However, she knew the medical staff were already doing all they could, all that was humanly possible, and what may be left for her to do was not meant for them to see.

She thought she saw Gojo nod in acknowledgement but when she turned to looked at him, he seemed to be entering a trance of his own.

“I’ll go in even if they kick me out and come to update you later, okay?” Shoko told the white-haired man sitting next to her before leaving him in the waiting room.

But it was already later, and Shoko had not come back, so Satoru turned to the only source of comfort he had right now and hit replay.

“Satoru, this is [name]…”

***

Shoko stared at your form.

Even after all bleeding had been stopped and a successful surgery to remove the bullet, and even after Shoko herself had treated you, she still did not like the numbers on your monitor or the fact that you showed no sign of coming back to consciousness.

She told herself it was probably a matter of time. You were to be kept under observation and if remaining stable, you would be moved to a room.

Now she was sitting close to your bed, doing just that, observing. She had been right, it was not a curse what did the most harm, but she knew cursed energy had definitely been used, and Gojo would pick on it too when he saw you.

“You asked me what the worst part of being a doctor was,” her voice was soft, without hesitation, although she did not usually talk to unconscious patients. “This is it, doing everything you can but not knowing if it has been enough.”

***

“Don’t you dare support this nonsense,” it was your mother’s voice.

Satoru had not meant to eavesdrop. He was there to visit, as he had kept doing over the last couple of years that he had been spending a lot of time in Tokyo, where he was to attend high school next year at Jujutsu High, with you. That if your mother allowed it.

“Aren’t there good schools here? They can attend any. It doesn’t have to be Tokyo. It doesn’t have to be that school.”

That school.

Of course.

Satoru had always known he would have to go to Tokyo. Unlike you, he had no choice. But when in the spring of your last year in junior high, you had told your mother you were planning to go learn jujutsu with him, she was not pleased. Anyway, it was surprising that six months later, she was still against it.

“Can you let them do what they want for once?” your father asked in that mild tone that made it difficult to say for certain if he was upset.

“Is it what they want or what you want?” she questioned with a hint of an accusation.

Your mother was not a sorcerer, never had been. Your father was, in fact, one of the few members of his own family who could see curses. Despite it, the woman he had married was familiar with the many caveats of the sorcerers' job and was not willing to let her child start a career that could likely lead them to their death, which she proceeded to state.

“Is that so? You either want you child dead or want them to continue following the Gojo heir even if it kills them,” she insisted.

“Enough,” your father barked. “It’s enough.”

She exited the room only to find the Gojo heir in the hall, who looked at her as if caught red-handed, but before he could give her any excuse, she spoke.

“[name] is not home yet but should be back soon,” and she left.

Satoru did not mind her sometimes straightforward treatment. She had looked as if she was about to cry.

When Satoru looked into the room your mother had fled, he found your father, looking at his untouched tea over the table, lost in thought. The sight of the boy pulled him back to his senses.

“Satoru,” he pronounced his name softly.

It was refreshing, Gojo thought. Most people at his family’s state had started to address him as they once addressed his father, treat him as the head of the clan he was bound to become despite him being just a teen. But not your father, to him, the powerful heir of the Gojo clan was just little Satoru, your friend.

“Did you..?” the man did not need to finish the question to know the boy had heard him arguing with his wife. “I see. I’m sorry you heard that.”

Satoru thought he should say something to him, but all he could do was ask the most natural question.

“Will [name] still come to Tokyo?”

He looked at him as if he had expected the question.

“If that is what they want.” Your father nodded. “I know the air is different there, and so are the curses. [name] has never left this town, so of course I worry.” He looked outside, half-expecting to see his wife’s disapproving stare from the yard, but she was not there. “But I know [name] will be fine because they will be with you.”

***

I failed you, sir.

I failed them too.

Satoru was not sure of how long he had dozed off. Maybe only a few minutes. That was fine, that was all the sleep he needed. I was enough to go through twenty-four more hours of waiting. Waiting for you to wake up.

He looked around the room you had been transferred to, spacious but small at the same time. Or maybe that was just his perception, the feeling that came with knowing he could not leave this room until you opened your eyes.

After your condition had shown little improvement, Ieiri had told him to go home, but there was no way he could leave. Never again.

“When was the last time we were this quiet in the same room?” he asked you although he knew there would be no answer.

After a moment of silence, he spoke again, feeling the need to talk to you even if you would not talk back.

“I’m sorry, [name].”

Had you been conscious, you would have known he was apologizing sincerely as his voice was almost a whisper.

“I shouldn’t have left you. I shouldn’t have let you leave.”

It came with a staggering sense of powerlessness, the realization that he had thought those same words after Suguru deflected years ago.

He put his hand over yours, the gesture was a silent plea for you to not leave him now too, and even if your hand was the coldest it had ever been and even if Satoru had never been religious, he allowed himself to pray to whatever gods there were that you could stay.

----------------------

Note: I'll proofread at some point... Anyway, it's our beloved's birthday eve (at least for me). How are you all?

Thanks for reading!

@mavs-stuff @witchbybirth @crookedlyaddictedone-blog @tqd4455 @maybe-a-bi-witch @mo0nforme @maliakealoha @zacatecanaaaa @blushhpeachh @astriarose @missesgojosatoru @ba-ks @sukunasleftkneecap @songbirdlully @cole-silas @heijihattorisgf @chokesonspit @hersheyzzz @smolbeanzzz @luciledreamz @avidreadee123 @moonmalice @ratscandaler @sadmonke

[himasgod]

King Deshret x Reader IV part II

Where Deshret interrupts your wedding with a sincere apology and at the altar, next to Morax, you must decide what to do.

XXII.

The skies of Liyue were painted in gold and crimson as the sun slid behind the mountains. Nobles, merchants, yakshas and Archons from all nations gathered atop Mount Tianheng to witness the long-awaited union between Princess Phoenix and the Geo Archon. Everything was set for a marriage that promised to be legendary.

Under a canopy of red and gold silk, decorated with elegant floating lanterns, you stood, dressed in a red robe embroidered with symbols of your lineage. The melodies of the musicians filled the air, and yet, in your heart, you felt an emptiness that not even the splendor of the ceremony could fill. Beside you, Morax watched you calmly, his countenance calm as stone, but his golden eyes shining with a curiosity that you could not ignore.

“You are ready,” Morax whispered to you, his voice low and warm, though with a slight hesitation that only you could sense. “But if your heart hesitates, it is not too late to retreat.”

Before you could respond, a restless murmur spread through the crowd. All eyes turned to the entrance of the altar as an unexpected guest appeared:

King Deshret.

XXIII.

The imposing god walked towards you, defying the astonished gazes of those present. His golden robes were dusty, his eyes reflecting a whirlwind of emotions. Despite his worn appearance, his bearing still held the nobility of a king. The Archons watched him in silence; Nabu Malikata, present in the crowd, had an expression full of sadness, knowing that he had come to reclaim what he had lost.

“My dearest, my Queen..." his voice echoed through the altar, a murmur full of regret. He knelt before you, something no one, not even you, would have imagined.

“I cannot… I cannot allow this wedding to take place without begging for your forgiveness.”

The gazes of the guests intensified. Morax, at your side, showed no emotion, but his presence was a constant reminder of the weight of your decision. Time seemed to stand still as Deshret, such a proud god, humbled himself before you.

“I lost my mind by choosing my ambitions and Nabu Malikata over you,” he continued, his voice cracking with despair. “I was a fool to let you go. I didn’t realize what I had until I lost it. I beg you… I beg you to give me one last chance to make amends for my mistakes.”

Tears threatened to fill your eyes, but you held firm.

For months, you had tried to forget the man who once meant everything to you, the one you had loved with a fervor that defied the gods and fate. But here he stood, before you, vulnerable and defeated.

XXIV.

Morax, witness to Deshret’s plea, took a step forward, his golden eyes assessing the situation.

“Deshret, your presence here defies the laws you yourself swore to uphold. This ceremony symbolizes the end of what you once had. Do not come to interrupt what is already decided.”

But before Morax could say more, you raised your hand to stop him. “Morax… please,” you murmured, your voice shaking slightly. He fell silent, respecting your wish.

Deshret looked at you, his eyes filled with hope, a hope that broke your heart.

“I know I have failed,” he said. “But I cannot live knowing that I will never see you again. I will give up everything for you, give up my dreams, my kingdom… if only you will give me the chance to love you one more time.”

The crowd watched in silence, as if the entire world had stopped breathing. You could feel the tension in the air, the silent judgement of the Archons and the nobles. But in that instant, all that mattered was the truth that lay in your heart.

XXV

You took a deep breath, and the words that fell from your lips were like a balm to Deshret’s soul.

“For so long, I hated you, Deshret,” you began, your eyes filled with tears.

“I hated you for abandoning me, for letting our flame be extinguished by your dreams of glory. But in this time, I have learned that holding on to that hatred has only chained me to the past.”

You moved closer to him, your shaking hands caressing his cheek covered in sand and sweat. “I forgive you, Deshret… not because you deserve it, but because I need to free myself from the weight your betrayal left on my heart.”

Deshret gasped, his eyes filled with childlike wonder, as if he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. But before he could speak, you looked at him with a firmness you had never shown before.

“However, my forgiveness does not mean that I belong to you again. I have learned to love myself more than any broken promise.”

Morax looked at you, his golden eyes shining with a glint that only you could understand. He had been willing to offer you the stability that Deshret had not give you. But your heart, despite all the pain, remained anchored to the god who now knelt before you.

You took a deep sigh and turned to Morax, who nodded in understanding before speaking.

“If it is your wish to return to him, I will not prevent you,” Morax said, his voice firm but with a tinge of sadness. “I only want you to find the peace you so deserve.”

XXVI.

You extended your hand to Deshret, helping him to his feet. He looked at you as if you were a miracle, a second breath of life that he never thought he would have again. “I am not going to marry Morax,” you said in a whisper that only Deshret and the Geo Archon could hear.

“But I cannot promise you that our relationship will be the same either. If you truly wish to regain what we had, you will have to prove to me that you have changed.”

Deshret nodded fervently, his eyes filled with determination. “I will do whatever it takes, my Queen, to win back your love. I will not fail you again.”

Morax, his dignity unwavering, stepped aside to allow the two of you to leave the altar. The crowd gasped as you and Deshret walked away together. The murmurs turned to a roar of disbelief, but you ignored them. In your heart, you felt like you had made the right decision, though the road to reconciliation would be long and arduous.

In the end, it wasn’t about returning to the past, but about building something new among the ruins of what once was.

Here is my masterlist, in case you are interested in any more of my work or want to send me a request <3

[rowonlgc]

[ 💬 peachy oppa ] oppa! happy birthday! i almost missed it because what day of the week are we even 😫 hahaha anyway enjoy yourself! i'll be heading back to seosan in january, will facetime you for our tree~

SENT TO › 유미란 05 / 12

  🔊 › “heard we didn’t get many peaches last year.       do me a favour and give it some extra love?       so it doesn’t feel neglected ~”   🔊 › “maybe i should join you. it’s been a while.”

  ✉️ › i like your part in ditto   ✉️ › you sound good   ✉️ › proud of you.

[yoonia]

the bedroom hymns ● chapter xxiii

⟶ Chapter summary | He may not be the Prince Charming written in fairy tales, but in your eyes, he seems perfectly yours. Even with many secrets lying between you, a part of you insists to put faith in him, to trust him, even with your secrets. Besides, there is a good reason why fate answered your prayers by allowing you to meet him again, shouldn’t it? 

⟶ Title | The Bedroom Hymns: a Bluebeard’s twist ⟶ Pairings | Min Yoongi x female reader  ⟶ Genre | Fairy Prince!Yoongi, Crown Princess!reader, Fantasy!AU, Fairy Tale retelling ⟶ Word count | 9,264 words ⟶ Ratings | PG-13, +18 / M for Mature for future chapters; include magic terms, classism, brief mention of slavery, black market, usage of drugs mentioned, hypnotism.  ⟶ Story Masterlist: The Bedroom Hymns | ⤎ previous chapter | next chapter ⇢ ⟶ Main Masterlist | Mailbox | Taglist | Feedback | Music Playlist | Ko-fi

chapter xxiii. serendipity-3

The sun has finally gone out. The bright sky is now painted in vibrant colours of blue, faded teal, and purple as dusk slowly melts into night. Up above, the stars are beginning to show their presence, looking like pixie dust spreading into the night. 

Once the pixies welcomed Yoongi into their circle, he was sat down by the curious pixies to endure the same questioning as you had. 

“Where did you come from?” 

“How did you cross the border?” 

“Is that a real sword? Is it heavy? Have you ever hurt anyone with it? Have you ever hurt yourself?” 

“Your hair is so soft. What did you put in it?” 

You had to hold back a smile while he went through it, yet your own curiosity rose when Yoongi visibly tensed and surprised when he heard Illyn asking, “Did you also walk past the fairy portal in the woods?” 

It didn’t take long for the pixies to lose interest in Yoongi, however, as fireflies began to come out of their hiding once it grew dark and caught their attention. Seems like they have yet to run out of energy, even after playing the whole day and the entire afternoon, as they are now busy chasing the fireflies and slipping between the thickening white mist rising around the riverbank. The sound of their joyful giggles echoes through the evening as you join Yoongi on a stroll along the length of the river, spending the last hour that you have left before you have to run home. 

The thought of having to say goodbye when you barely have enough time to share with Yoongi saddens you. Yet you try to make the best of it. You don’t even resist when Yoongi insists on holding your hand when he helps you jump across a small puddle, and you say nothing when he still keeps your hand in his as you slowly make your way back towards the elven town. 

“It feels really peaceful here, doesn’t it?” you muse with a sigh as you look up beyond the canopy of leaves above your head, marvelling at the colours showing in the sky—colours you wouldn’t normally see back home—and the sparkle of stars now filling the sky.

Far ahead of you, just beyond the tree line, the elven town lights up. Golden lights emerge through the open windows, lanterns hanging from the houses and on the small roads illuminate the rest of the town, and each sparkle of light is reflected on the waterfall that gleams brighter in the night. 

“Aren’t you afraid of the dark?” Yoongi asks, almost teasingly, “There is barely any light here, under the trees, and starlight can’t really reach us once we get deeper into the woods.” 

You glance around, seeing the contrasting sight of the dark forest filled with nothing but unmoving shadows against the brightening town. Before, it would have been daunting for you to travel into these woods, when the only colours you’d see are the white mist crawling on the ground and the fog forming from your breath. But after the chilling darkness and the daunting sights you find during your previous trips, this kind of darkness doesn’t incite any uneasiness rushing through your skin. 

The cold breeze doesn’t make you shiver. The cricket sounds echoing from the riverbanks, the faint night birdsong, and the echoes of the giggling and humming sounds of the pixies only give you a sense of calmness. Yoongi’s gentle hold on your hand and his warm presence make you feel secure enough to stare into the darkness and walk through it. 

“No, I’m not afraid,” you simply answer him with a smile. “Compared to where I’ve been lately, this place feels more like heaven. And what should I worry about when I have you here with me?” 

Yoongi lowers his eyes as he draws his bottom lip between his teeth. “Have you missed me while I was gone?”

“No. Not really,” the lie easily slips out of your lips, and the corners of his lips rise to a smile. 

A deep chuckle escapes him, causing your heartbeat to trip. Air slowly leaves your lungs as he gently opens his eyes, showing you the deep gaze which haunts your thoughts whether you are in slumber or when you are awake. “You look pretty even when you lie,” he whispers with a low voice. 

Turning away from him, you take a deep, long breath. You have no idea if the heat rising on your cheeks came from his words or the way he is looking at you. “You always speak as you please.” 

“Yet I’m not the one who is lying,” he replies, and you can almost hear his smile before your eyes find him again. “That’s me saying that I don’t believe you. Not for one second.” 

Your cheeks are flushed, his words become a spell that makes your heart race and your hope bloom like wildflowers. And then the feeling is made worse when you turn to face Yoongi, capturing the deep longing in his gaze which mirrors yours perfectly that your words begin to spill out. “And if I tell you that I missed you, what would you do?” 

His chest rises with a sharp breath. The intense look in his gaze makes it hard for you to breathe and you cannot understand why. “I will cherish it,” he says, his voice sounding firm and sure that you find no reason to be doubtful. “The thought of you thinking about me in my absence brings me joy like no other.”

Your throat feels dry. Your heart feels like it is about to jump out of your chest the first chance it gets.  

“Always so charming with your words.” 

A ghost of a smile appears on his face, and then it is gone. “Yet none of it is a lie.” 

“I believe you,” you whisper with a sigh, and you mean it. because you can see it—you can feel it—simply by looking into his eyes. For a moment, you find it hard to look away. You despise ever thinking about having to look at other things but his face, to even look away from his eyes that are sometimes more honest than his words. 

But then the sound of wild giggles seems to be coming closer, the fluttering movements of the pixies entering the trees break the spell forming between you, and Yoongi is the one to give in first with a smile.  

“Now, shall we enjoy the rest of the evening? Maybe see what they are up to now before I send you home?” 

Home.

The thought of having to walk away from this place, from him, is eating you from the inside. Yet you try to push it down, silently hoping—praying—that this wouldn’t be the last evening that you would be spending with him. 

“All right. Lead the way.” 

Yoongi is left astonished at what is happening at this moment. 

Right before his eyes, the pixies are dancing and singing together, giving the two of you a show in an opening they found in the middle of the forest. Here, the moonlight is shining brightly from above, as if creating a special stage for them to perform their little celebration. And you are standing right beside him, enjoying this view together with him, with your hand entwined with his and shoulder brushing against his as you gently sway to the song the pixies are singing. 

He secretly steals a glance at your face without you realising it. He wants to commit this moment to his memory; the look of awe on your face as you watch the pixies dancing before you; your eyes that are glowing with amusement and pure joy; the delicate way your fingers seem to sink into his palm, as if they belong there. 

For the first time after quite some time, Yoongi feels at ease. Perhaps being with you helps, feeling your presence nearby and the touch of your hand in his becoming his anchor. 

For the past week, he felt as if his life was going out of control. But with you, he feels like everything is slowly falling into place, and he simply wants to hold on to everything before it slips away from his hold. 

Smiling, Yoongi turns his attention back to the pixies. The song they are singing seems to rouse a peculiar sensation within him. It fills him with joy and—amusingly—raw pleasure that he had only ever felt from drinking the strongest ales created by the hands of the moon fairies of Emburn. 

He shouldn’t be surprised to feel this kind of sensation simply by listening to the pixies’ tune. He has learned quite a lot about pixies after his previous journeys and his various close encounters with beings of their kind. Many may not have known this, but their magic dust isn’t the only thing that is special about the pixies. The song they sing, the tune and the words they hum, are said to be magical, acting like a spell to incite various sensations within other beings—mostly humans, as they are the most vulnerable beings against magic. 

As he continues to watch their performance and feels as if he is no longer carrying unwanted weight on his shoulders, his troubles forgotten and feeling only hope blooming in his chest, Yoongi wonders if the song that they are singing is the kind of spell that only brings joy. The kind that often causes dream-like experiences for other beings like himself, and others like you. 

Needing this escape, Yoongi allows himself to relish this feeling for a moment longer, to enjoy this moment with you, before he begins worrying about other matters. 

One of which is trying to make things right with you, when his lack of presence as of late may have placed him a few steps behind from what he wanted to achieve by following you through the portals. All he wanted was to become closer, not to feel as if you were a world apart from him even when you are right beside him. 

He wanted to win your trust, and perhaps one day, he can win your heart. But how would he be able to do so if he kept missing from your life whenever you needed him? 

“Forgive me for not being able to join you during your previous trips. I had somewhere else to be, and not one of my excursions ever led me to your path.” Yoongi says as he walks beside you, continuing your stroll along the river once he can sense that your time here is slowly coming to an end. 

You and Yoongi have left the pixies behind you, still enjoying their time partying in the forest with more and more other pixies joining in to form a bigger circle. The last time Yoongi turned to glance over his shoulder, the pixies’ dancing had become so intense that he began seeing golden dust sparkling all around them, their rapid dancing and the spells they were singing brought together magic pixie dust to illuminate the forest around them. 

Those pixie dust have now scattered all over the gravelled pathway before him, as the wined pixie kept floating across to drop the magical dust to help light up the way, allowing the two of you to see clearly through the darkening woods. 

Muted golden glow from the magic dust spreads all around him, the lights reflecting perfectly on your face that Yoongi cannot look away. In his eyes, you look as if you are walking among the stars, up there in the night sky, and he is floating with you like a shadow, protecting you from the night. 

He has pictured this moment many times before, when he was walking down the royal garden or through the halls within the Imperial Palace, wishing that you were by his side. Wishing that he was spending time with you instead of with the bratty princess who was more than happy to play along with the Empress’ ploy in keeping him back home. Now that this is finally happening, it seems hard for his mind to accept that this is his reality and not just a figment of his imagination, his wishful thinking playing tricks on him to make him believe that this is real. 

“I—wasn’t sure if I’d ever get to see you today, to be honest,” Yoongi painfully admits, while recalling how hard it was for him to escape from the palace today. 

It was his own fault for getting him in such a situation, after all. 

He shouldn’t have traded the dance that he wanted so badly to avoid with a promise. A promise that he regretted the moment he stepped into the royal garden, when he realised too late that he had made a deal with the wrong force. 

What Yoongi had imagined to be a swift affair, a simple afternoon tea to appease the royal brat of a princess where all he had to do was sit and act nice while she gushed and gossiped about life within the empire, had turned out to be everything that was not. 

The entire encounter had instead turned mostly peculiar. 

Princess Celestyna has always worn the facade of a coy and almost naive and child-like, just like any other sheltered and spoiled princess he has ever met. But this afternoon, as she sat at the table set up for their little ‘date’, the princess had shed her entire facade and worn a new persona. Her presence emitted arrogance and an eerie calmness that made him feel uneasy. He was just about to call everything off when the princess dropped a bomb on him.

“I know that this is the last place you would rather be, Your Highness,” she said to him between taking dainty sips of her tea, with a gaze that carried a peculiar look to which Yoongi felt cautious. But then his blood ran cold when she added, “Do you know the real reason why I followed my father to visit your empire and meet the Empress? You’ve felt it, haven’t you? The air is changing. You cannot tell me you have no idea what, or who is causing it.” 

Realisation dawned in Yoongi back then, just as everything that he noticed about the realm upon his return came back to him; the turbulence he felt welcoming him home in waves; the stillness in the air; and the imbalance of magic. 

Before Yoongi could process things further, or inquire the princess about the secrets that she seemed to be offering him, he felt the ripple of magic rising at the back of his mind. It was subtle enough so that he knew he would be the only one who could feel it, and he immediately knew that it was the moment you stepped into a portal. 

Yoongi was caught between staying, accepting the princess’s olive branch, and the fear of losing the chance to see you again, so for a moment, he nearly faltered. But his wish to see you again prevailed. He felt your presence calling for him, pulling at his soul, and it gave him the willpower to walk away and race through the portal to catch up with you.  

“You won’t be able to keep running, Your Highness,” the princess called out to him just as Yoongi began to walk away, “You can try to avoid me as much as you want to or deny what must happen for as long as you can, but you must know that you won’t be able to change anything.” 

Yoongi shakes his head, shaking away the memory of the unpleasant encounter from his mind. He hates that even now, when he is supposed to be enjoying his time with you, that second princess of the Kosha Empire still dares to invade his mind—just like how she has been trying to invade his entire life. 

“It wasn’t easy, and I debated if I should risk making this trip at the last minute, when I still had my duties ahead of me,” he says with a grim smile on his face as the memory of Princess Celestyna’s cunning smile comes and goes. “But in the end, I am glad that I chose to listen to my gut and risk everything for a chance to see you again.” 

The smile that you give him alleviates his guilt. Only slightly.

But it is still the same smile that he has been longing to see. So much so that he has been seeing it in his dreams that he suddenly feels the urge to pinch himself just to make sure that this isn’t another dream, taunting him with your presence only to take you away from him so soon. 

“And here you are, right when I was just wondering if I should walk away sooner than planned,” you respond to him, much to his relief. A part of him was expecting to see your growing distrust of him, and yet your words hold no adversity in them that it makes him feel almost undeserving of your kindness. 

“I am beginning to believe this matter of fate that you spoke of so often, seeing that you were able to find me despite how busy you’ve been.” A soft chuckle slips out of your lips. “I’m amazed that you managed to find me at all.” 

Pain pierces through him as he returns your smile. He feels bitter about the fact that he had been the one who spoke of fate intertwining your lives together and yet has become the one defying fate itself. He cannot stop feeling as if he has failed you, and he knows that this feeling will continue to haunt him each time he remembers the disappointed look in your eyes looking back at him. 

And he knows that he will disappoint you further by not being able to share his secrets, even if only to answer your curiosity. 

“Is it another mercenary work that’s been keeping you away?” you innocently question him, and Yoongi can only bite back his tongue. In a way, it wouldn’t be too off the mark, since he did use his mercenary work as an excuse to stay out of the imperial palace from time to time, or when he needed a break from the Empress’ plot of keeping him close to their royal guests. 

It was safer for him to use the mercenary army as an excuse rather than using the magic portals, with the chances of having the Empress planting an eye around him.

“Perhaps,” he sighs, “you can say that.” He hates not being able to tell you the truth, but he also has no way of confessing that his lack of presence in your expeditions has been caused by another. With a tight smile on his face, Yoongi turns to ask you, “Have you been travelling well lately?” 

For a moment, you look quite reluctant to answer. At first, Yoongi simply takes it as your hesitance about sharing the secrets behind the magic that you are using. But instead, you choose to share something completely unexpected. 

“Not that much, actually. I have been—unwell,” you slowly admit. “After the last time we met in Grimm, I was left bedridden for quite a while.” 

His brows rise. “How so?” he asks, feeling uneasy.

Pressing your lips together, you shrug at him. “It seems that I have been using up my mana due to my travelling.” 

“Do you mean to say that your means of travel has been draining your mana?” Yoongi asks. His surprise almost caused him to make a slip-up, to show you that he knows by which way you have been travelling to different places. 

Thankfully, you don’t seem to notice it as you continue walking. “It may seem so”—a touch of a smile flickers on your face—”although it is just a personal assumption that I made up, seeing that it happened after I came back from travelling.” You stop for a moment, thinking. “Actually, now that I think about it, this kind of exhaustion only happened when I went across to places within Far Far Away.” 

Yoongi falls silent as he ponders over this. He cannot figure out why the same magic that empowers him—and one that he has learned to understand and control since he was just a young boy—would be reacting differently towards you. While this explains the reason behind your recent absence, he cannot say that he takes any pleasure in knowing. 

Perhaps it would have been better to hear that you had encountered something else getting in the way of you using the portals. Anything else but having your well-being and your safety having been compromised to be the reason for it. 

“You never felt the same when you were travelling back to Smotia?” 

You consider it for a moment before shaking your head. “Hmmm, I don’t recall that I have. I always felt tired, but it wasn’t as bad as it has been lately.” You stop, furrowing your brows, before turning to him. “Do you think—” 

“What?” 

Gnawing your lips, you shake your head gently before sharing your thoughts. “It’s just something that I thought of,” you begin to say, still hesitant. “What if, the—magic that I’m using to travel is feeding off my mana?” You turn to him. “Can something like that happen?” 

“You mean, it’s using your mana like fuel?” Yoongi asks, raising his brows. 

You slowly nod. “Like what oil does to a lamp, or food to humans.” 

Humming to himself, Yoongi recalls everything that he has learned about the magic portals. To think of any possible side effects or the possibility of it not taking its powers from the moon—as expected of these types of portals—but from its user instead. Yet he comes up with nothing. Because nothing similar to this has ever happened. Not to him, and certainly not to the Emperor, who used to travel merely through the portals to deal with the empire’s business. 

But the truth is, he simply never heard of it. 

A random thought suddenly crosses Yoongi’s mind just then. 

“In theory, it can happen,” he cautiously says, just as he remembers something that he once learned about magic. 

Any form of magic requires a price. A sacrifice is needed to be made to pay for any magic that is pulled out of the realm, used and cast by whoever is summoning them. For the type of magic as strong as the fairy portals, a sacrifice must be made. The Ancient moon fairies, however, had found a way to resolve this. 

By borrowing power from the moon, the fairies obtaining the skill to create, open, and use the portals would no longer need to sacrifice a thing. Only to then repay all the powers lent to them by the moon by celebrating the rites during the Runea Luna Eve. This is how it’s been done for centuries, until Yoongi was given the keys to the magic portals. 

But could this really be the reason? 

Yoongi wonders as he looks at you. Since you are not a fairy such as himself, nor you were born with a fairy blood or a direct connection to the moon, using the magic which belonged to his kind may require you to pay for it with something else. Something valuable. 

Your mana. A piece of your heart. Your—lifespan. 

Yoongi fists his hands by his side. “Have you talked about this with anyone else?” 

“Well, yes.” The crease between your brows deepens, and then you mutter, “Okay, maybe not.” A beat of silence passes, before you correct yourself, “Not really.” 

Yoongi says nothing, only that he knows now that you have yet to share your secret with anyone else. No one knows about her using the portals, he muses, surprised with what he just learned. He shouldn’t feel relieved about it, since that only means that you have no one by your side to guide you through it. 

But if you still have nobody to talk to about this, if you are still keeping this a secret, then this means he can use this to strengthen the bond he has with you. To gain your trust that has become so fragile from his own doing. 

Cocking your head, you innocently ask him, “What are you thinking?” 

Yoongi grabs your hand instead of answering directly. He still has to work on finding out the truth about this side-effect before slowly revealing the truth about the portal—that he knows more about it than he is letting on, and that he and his family are the ones behind it. He needs to make sure that you trust him enough before he can. 

Because revealing the origin of the portal you are using might risk him losing your trust. It might risk him losing the only link he has to the Wicked King. 

“I’m just wondering,” he says, as he begins rubbing circles on the back of your hand with his thumb, drawing shivers through your skin, “you mentioned before that this is all new for you. That you are still getting used to your new life in Far Far Away.” 

He stops to wait until you respond with a nod before he continues, “Even without having to use magic, travelling within this realm itself can be draining, and you still can’t fully access your magic to begin with.” Looking down at the ground covered in pixie dust, Yoongi points at the glowing lights. “Take a look at how the scattered magic dust is covering the dark, hard ground beneath. Look at it as the realm we are standing in.” 

You turn to look at the sparkling magic dust and keep your eyes on it while Yoongi keeps speaking, “There are layers and layers of mana in this realm which—depending on which part of the land you are—may require different levels of mana within yourself to withstand it. For you to be able to ride the energy flow that is present all around you when you are stepping into a new territory.” 

Yoongi smiles as he senses you growing more at ease, and that you seem to understand what he is trying to say. “With your magic still restrained, you haven’t been able to put your raw mana to use. At the very least, not in its full potential.” 

Your gaze finds his after hearing this, which encourages Yoongi to continue, “So it’s quite possible that your body was weakened due to the insufficient amount of mana you had to boost the power of the magic. And it if had instead begun to feed on your life energy, that might explain why you experience fatigue and why it took longer for your mana to recover.” 

An understanding look fills your eyes. “That would make sense,” you mutter softly, and Yoongi can almost hear the wheels in your head turning. He can hear the questions that you have before you even think of voicing them out loud. He knows that—despite your lack of experience with magic—you are smart enough to understand things quickly.

Right when you are about to speak, to question him further—to force him to tell you everything about the portals—Yoongi cuts you off with his own question, “What about your latest trips? I thought you said you had been going back to back while I was away? How are you feeling now?” 

Finding out that you are experiencing some side effects from the portals made him feel wary, and it worries him more when he thinks about the constant waves of magic reaching out to him and he was never there. “You know, some people might think that it would be better to avoid anything that was harmful to them,” he tries to joke, “and yet you decided to jump right back into it again the moment you had the chance.” 

A grin lifts on the corner of your lips. “You got me,” you softly laugh. “I suppose my curiosity got the better of me. In a way, I wanted to test my theory, and—” You stop for a moment as you recall the past few days—the days that Yoongi would have loved to hear more about in detail—and then shrug a little. “You can say that the circumstances made it hard for me to avoid going on those trips.” 

Your gaze flicks back to him. “I might say that fate pointed out the way and I simply followed.” Yoongi returns your smile. “But things are different now.” 

“Different? In what way?” 

You make a humming sound as you answer, “I’ve been training. Someone—one of my guardians—offered to help me practice controlling my mana, even if I can’t really use it to expel magic.” Yoongi cannot help but smile as you share this. He loves seeing how proud you look, simply from thinking about what you have achieved on your own. The look of excitement for overcoming a challenge and getting yourself ready to try facing another. 

“Do you think your training has been helping you, seeing that you are doing quite alright now even after—how busy you’ve been?” 

“I’m not quite sure, really,” you admit with a nervous smile, “That’s also why I’ve been waiting to see you. What do you think? Do you reckon my progress may have anything to do with how I’m not sick right now?” 

Yoongi considers the option for a moment before nodding. “It might,” he cautiously says, “By having control of your mana, you might have been able to inadvertently prevent your mana from being drained completely while you had your expeditions.” 

This answer seems to please you. “Of course, I am not an expert in this type of magic,” he quickly says before you get your hopes up. And it is not a complete lie, as there are real experts back home at Emburn who study this old magic properly that would know better than he does now. And he quickly makes it his mission to find them once he returns. ”I can try and help you look for answers if that can help you.” 

Your smile widens. And he suddenly feels like his chest is too tight for his beating heart. “Would you do that for me?” you ask, to which he feels his knees weakening beneath him that he comes to a halt, bringing you close to him as he pulls you gently towards him. 

“Anything, little dove,” he murmurs as he gently leans closer. “Even if only to make up for my recent absence and the days that went on without us being able to enjoy our time like this.” 

Yoongi is so close. You are so close that he can breathe in the scent of your shampoo and the soft fragrance that you might have dropped onto the curves of your neckline this morning—something sweet and floral and maddeningly luscious—that his entire body grows warm. Before he can stop himself, his hand rises, fingers gently sweeping back some stray strands of hair that keep escaping to your cheek, and your face flushes. 

Clearing your throat, you lower your gaze with a bashful smile. “Speaking of places with mana,” you softly speak, a hint of shyness flutters in your voice which pleases him dearly when you ask, “Have you been to a place called Aeris?” 

Swallowing hard, Yoongi tries to calm his expression when he answers. “I’ve been there many times. Some of the merchants and barons that have hired me are those who deal with businesses in both realms, that’s why I frequently go to marketplaces like Narlès and Aeris.” He inclines his head. “Why do you ask?”  

“Have you been there recently?” you question him, gnawing your lips as if you aren’t sure to ask. 

“Not that I recall, no. I’ve been going to places where people were dealing with various crisis, and I have yet to visit any marketplaces lately.” 

You try to hide it, but Yoongi can see a hint of disappointment in your eyes. “I see.” 

Yoongi falls silent instead of questioning further. Because he knows why you would ask him about Aeris. 

He was unable to leave the Imperial Palace when he felt you visiting the Mage City, so he had to send out the only one he trusted to go in his place and watch over you, making sure that you were safe. Yet it seems that Yijeong has failed to report back to him to let him know that you had caught him, or perhaps felt his presence while shadowing you through the city.  

That fool. 

Swallowing a frustrated groan, Yoongi reminds himself to be grateful. Despite his recklessness and his lack of trust in you, Yijeong has been there when Yoongi couldn’t. His loyal friend has continued volunteering to take his place, jumping into the magic portal whenever the ripples came calling for Yoongi to follow, all to be able to watch over you and keep you safe while Yoongi was stuck in the Empress’ little ploy. 

From the mage city of Aeris to the legendary E’l Alora, the ancient place that is no longer shown on any kind of map, and then to the fallen city of Arselon, where mortals are no longer welcomed after they became casualties of war. 

Yoongi cannot imagine what kind of adventures you have been to. Not even Yijeong’s reports were adequate in letting him know what you’ve learned from these expeditions of yours. How much he wishes to be there to witness it. And how inadequate it makes him feel to realise how much he has missed. 

“The next time we meet again,” Yoongi gently says, “Tell me everything about your latest journey.” 

The smile you give him holds hope and promise. “As long as you share me yours.” 

As soon as you’ve made it across the bridge with Yoongi, you come to a halt, hesitant to continue.

You can feel it from a distance; the ripples of magic coming out of the portal, waiting for your return, hidden deep between the trees.

Silently, you wonder if Yoongi can feel it too. For some reason, you know that he can feel it, but he chooses not to show it. Not to say anything. Respecting your need to hold your secret just a bit longer until you can trust him completely with it. 

Judging from the way he isn’t making any move to continue, he is respecting your choice by not following you through the woods unless you allow him to. 

But keeping your secret and preventing him from following you to find the opened portal is the least of your concerns at this moment. You hate having to say goodbye so soon when you just met him again. Your time together has been too short, you feel like it wasn’t enough. 

Yoongi tilts his head, noticing your silence. “Is there something wrong?” he asks, as if he can sense you having an inner battle in your silence. 

“I don’t want to say goodbye so soon,” you admit with a quiet whisper. 

“Then don’t,” Yoongi says, smiling. “Don’t say goodbye. Not when we’re going to see each other again.” 

“Is that true? Will we be able to see each other again?” You cannot help but ask, “I’ve believed that we would, but—” 

Taking your hand in his, Yoongi gives it a gentle squeeze. “I promise, whenever you make the jump to travel somewhere, to a new place across the realm or even towards the next realm, I’ll come running to you,” he says with a firm voice, only that you are too afraid to believe him, to hope, after being disappointed the last few times you went and never found yourself crossing paths with him. 

“Don’t say such promises as if it is something that you are capable of doing,” you whisper bitterly, looking away. 

Still keeping a gentle hold of your hand, Yoongi tilts your chin up with his other hand, bringing your gaze back to him. “As I’ve told you many times before, little dove. I wouldn’t dare make a promise that I’m not sure I can keep,” he whispers as he plays with a few stray strands of your hair before tucking them behind your ear. Just like before, when he did the same and the tips of his fingers brushed lightly against your cheek, your body shudders. Your skin grows hot, and you sway on your feet, your body leaning towards him to feel more. 

Your eyes flutter to close as you embrace this feeling, yet you quickly open them again, resisting, only so you can look at him longer. But then his face comes closer, almost as if he is leaning for a kiss. “Can you keep that promise?” you force yourself to ask, even when your voice comes out small, almost breathless. “Can you really find a way to know where I am the next time I walk across the realm and be there when I make the jump?”

Yoongi says nothing at first. But the intense way he is looking at you, with no words, only with a gaze that seems tortured, as if he is pained for not being able to say much seems to speak louder than his words would. 

“How? How would you be able to do such a thing?” 

Instead of answering you, Yoongi only smiles. “Why don’t we make a little deal, you and me?” Yoongi offers instead, “I will tell you the next time we see each other again. Better yet, each time we meet again, I will share with you one secret of mine for you to keep. Something more about myself.” 

Sucking a deep breath, you try to calm the flutter building in your chest. And fail. “Promise?” Your voice comes out in a whisper. “And I—” You continue, feeling your throat tightening when you think about all the things you can offer to make this fair. You want to give something back. A piece of you to every piece of himself that he is willing to give you. 

Bringing your hand up, you offer him your pinky finger. “Then I’ll share something about myself too when we see each other again.” 

Looking up close, Yoongi’s eyes seem to sparkle. Intrigued and pleased, Yoongi’s smile deepens as he entwines his pinky finger around yours and murmurs, “It’s a promise.” 

Neither of you makes a move to separate, remaining in this position just a bit longer, staying close with his eyes staring deeply into yours. For a moment, you wonder if he is going to kiss you, as he slowly bends down, his face growing closer, until he suddenly stops with a hesitant smile. “Until we meet again,” he says instead, kissing the back of your hand. 

You are filled with a mix of emotions, yet the touch of his lips on your skin makes your heart flutter, soaring with hope. 

“Remember,” he whispers, “All you need to do is jump, and I’ll come running to you.” 

Despite everything, you know deep down that you can hold onto this promise. You want to believe him, and that is exactly what you say to him in the end before you finally decide to part ways just beyond the last line of trees. 

“Will you be okay crossing the woods on your own?” Yoongi asks, still reluctant to let you go into the woods. 

“I have my dagger with me, and I know how to defend myself,” you reassure him, and his gaze flickers with knowing, believing that you are telling him the truth. “If all fails, I’ll scream for help.” 

Yoongi softly laughs. “I’ll be here,” he says, as he slides his hands into his pockets, as if he is doing so to hold back from reaching out to you. “At least until you make it across.” 

You leave him standing by the bridge as you trudge into the thickets, his warm smile becomes the last thing you see when you look over your shoulder one last time, before slipping deeper into the woods and entering the magic portal waiting to take you home. You close your eyes for a brief moment when the magic engulfs you, pulling you through the space in between before you arrive back home. The force of the magic is so strong, that you barely feel it when another ripple of magic follows your departure, coming from somewhere nearby, right before the magic door closes behind you. 

The moment you open your eyes again, you are standing in the middle of the quiet corridor back in Stargrave. There is an emptiness in your chest as you walk further away from the ghostly feeling of the magic portal slowly waning behind you as you slowly make your way back to your bedchamber, yet you find no reason to feel any sorrow as you stroll down the empty hallways and into your silent quarter. 

Because you've arrived back home not all empty-handed. Not when you have the warmth of a promise filling your heart, the ghost of Yoongi’s touch lingering in your palm, and five pouches of pixie dust in the pocket of your dress. 

The day after your last trip, where you got to visit the home of elves and pixies, you remain in the castle instead of allowing your curiosity to take you away once again. 

Your father’s keys are secured safely in one of the drawers inside your bedchamber. Out of sight, though not entirely out of mind. 

“Take a day off from travelling, especially since you’ve been travelling more frequently as of late,” Yoongi had suggested yesterday, right before you parted ways, right after you made him so obviously worry about your well-being after you shared your recent predicament. 

And you have chosen to follow his advice. To preserve your energy and mana until the next time you will be needing it again. Until the next time you see him again. 

“And where will you be while I’m gone? Back to your mercenary business?” 

Yoongi had given you a tight smile when you asked. Yet his eyes were filled with resolve when he answered, “Perhaps I shall handle my business to make sure they will no longer be in the way of me catching up to you.” 

With no plans on escaping the confines of the castle, you spend your afternoon at the terrace on Nanny Abigail’s quarter for some afternoon tea with your governess. It has been a while since you spent some time with her without any agenda hidden under your sleeves—or hers. 

Being here also means keeping you away from any possibility of you straying down vacant hallways in the castle and finding cryptic doors with humming spells enchanting you to open.  

“It’s quite remarkable to think that on the same day you spent the hour of your dancing lesson stubbing your toes one too many times, you spent the rest of the afternoon sparring with the knights,” Nanny Abigail lifts her eyes from her tea and runs her gaze on your body, perusing briefly before commenting, “and without any injuries on your skin.” 

You look up, forcing a smile as you resist the urge to admit that you did gain some injuries. But you choose not to say anything, lest you are to be forced to explain everything. Or worse, to risk causing an innocent royal knight to take the blame. 

“How did you find out?” You ask her instead while keeping your voice calm. 

Nanny Abigail presses her lips together. A look of displeasure is written all over her face. “Words travel fast in this place. The maids here keep curious eyes on the Princess who had been kept away from the only home she ever knew and is struggling to adjust in this new place,” she says with a wistful tone of voice, as if she has grown tired of the gossips, until she adds, “And those words always come back to me.”  

“No wonder I felt like I was constantly being watched.” With an exaggerated sigh, you shake your head and mutter, “And here I thought it was all you.” 

Eyebrows raised, Nanny Abigail looks at you with an unamused look on her face. “You think I planted a spy on you?” 

You give her a sly grin as you shrug. “Wouldn’t be too surprised if you had. You’ve always seemed to have many eyes looking at me even when you are not around.” 

Your governess narrows her eyes at you as she murmurs almost to herself, “Perhaps it’s time I should put a spy on you to make sure you behave like a princess for once.” 

The bitter way she says it only makes you laugh, which draws a smile to her face. A fleeting sight to see, that you almost believe you are imagining things, until you hear the sound of her soft chuckle, laughing at her own joke. She expertly hides it behind her cup of tea, keeping her poise as always. 

“May I ask you something?” you carefully ask her when a thought comes through your mind. Something has been weighing in your mind lately, and seeing that your governess seems to be in a light mood—enough for her to joke around with you—you figure this might as well be the right time to bring this up.  

Nanny Abigail lifts her eyebrows and hums. “I don’t suppose it will stop you from trying if I refuse.” 

You roll your eyes. “Glad to know you think so highly of me,” you tease, once again drawing a small smile from her. You take a deep breath before asking, “How well did you know my mother?” 

At the mention of your mother, Nanny Abigail’s shoulders grow stiff. She quickly recovers and straightens up as she slowly lowers her cup. She clears her throat before answering, “Well enough to see parts of her in you each time I’m looking at you. It’s like seeing a reflection of her when I look at your face, or listen to you speak.” 

Her gaze finds you. The joy in her eyes dims and softens when a smile comes to her face. A smile that is filled with melancholy and a familiar sense of longing. “Might be why it doesn’t surprise me when you are always up to something whenever no one is looking.” 

“What do you mean by that?” 

Nanny Abigail sighs. “The Queen, your mother, has always been just as mischievous as you are. She has always been like that since she was a child. Always so curious, always questioning and looking for answers, even if it’s the most impossible ones to find.”

You cannot help but smile as you hear this. “How did that go with my father?” 

“His Majesty was always worried about her, but what can he do?” she says, waving her hand dismissively. “Not even the most strict rules can stop her from going out to see the world.” 

Your back straightens. You have learned from Lord Gordan that you may have some similarities with your mother. You never expected to even share this with her. “She was a traveller.” 

Nanny Abigail looks at you, smiling. “And a scholar,” she adds. “That was her true power.” She briefly halts, thinking, before adding, “Well, one of them. Her curiosity is one, and her knowledge is the other. But the most important one that she obtained over the years would be her courage. The one thing that kept pushing her to find more and more knowledge, no matter where and how.”

“This castle is full of books,” you muse, recalling how much the royal library had amazed you the first time you entered it. And it seems that you keep finding more and more books—all the rare ones that have often helped answer your questions—the more you explore deeper. “Was it because my mother loved to learn?” 

“Yes, it was. Your mother’s always so fond of books,” Nanny Abigail says with a fond look in her eyes. “I believe she also kept a journal with her. A small notebook where she would keep the things she found and learned through her journeys.” 

The conversation halts for a moment as Nanny Abigail pours some more tea into the cups, while your mind wanders. “How did she travel?” you find yourself asking, wondering, to which Nanny Abigail merely scoffs. 

“Heavens know. She always had her secrets,” she answers with a soft chuckle. “Mostly, she would disappear hours into the day and come back once evening comes. Sometimes later, looking weary and excited at the same time from whatever adventure she got herself on.” 

Furrowing your brows, you think about what she mentioned earlier. “The journal. Have you ever seen it? Have you ever read what she wrote in it?” 

Nanny Abigail presses her lips and shakes her head. “No, she used to keep it to herself. Kept it hidden in her bedchamber.” Her gaze seems far away when she continues, “But she would talk about her day as she was writing about it. Sometimes she would do sketches. She would draw the places, the people she met, and the things she saw into these rough sketches for her to keep in her memory, but never once had she ever shown me anything she put down in that journal.” 

Talking about your mother and the things they used to do back then brings another smile to her face. And she talks as if the memory is still fresh, that everything is happening in the present instead of the past, that you can almost see it through her eyes, to feel your mother’s presence the way Nanny Abigail is feeling it now. “Besides, even if I ever got a peek at her writing, I wouldn’t have understood it,” she adds. 

“Why wouldn’t you?” 

“Your mother’s quite adept with languages. She grew up speaking the language of the elves, and she was learning the native language of the moon fairies when she first began writing in that journal.” Her sigh is filled with longing when she continues, “She left a page on her desk once, something that looked like a letter that fell from the journal. She was quick to hide it, but I remember not recognising the language or the letters that she used. I couldn’t even read her scribbles, since she wrote them so quickly. Perhaps she had done it while on the road.” 

She laughs. “I think it’s her way of keeping all the information she wrote a secret, only for certain people to be able to read them.” 

You lean forward, getting more and more curious about this journal that your mother had allegedly carried with her. “Do you know where it is now?” you try to ask. “Or is it—is it lost with most of her belongings?” 

Nanny Abigail only answers with a resigned sigh. “No one knows. The Queen holds her secrets deeply, even in her absence.” Her gaze finds yours as she raises her cup of tea to her lips. “Just like you do.” 

A beat of silence falls. The wheels in your head are turning wildly as you try to connect all the dots. The places you’ve been. The words that were given to you by the people you met. 

But then all the puzzling clues you have gathered in your memory scatter when Nanny Abigail suddenly chastises you, “Of all the things you could have been doing in your free time, why did it have to be a sword fight?” 

Scoffing, you raise your brows at her. “Are you wishing that I’d be doing embroideries instead?” 

“Well, you could need some more work on that, for sure,” she teases, making you laugh.

“Hah! Very funny,” you respond with a chuckle. “But really, I was—” Sighing, you decide to share some truth about what has been troubling you. “I was bored, and I was getting too soft.” 

Nanny Abigail gives you an incredulous look. “From dancing?” 

“From the lack of physical training,” you bitterly admit, “I don’t think Lord Gordan is brazen enough to defy my father in terms of giving me lessons in fighting.” 

You hear Nanny Abigail sighing as she mutters, “As if you still need one.” 

“You are good at dancing and yet you still practice when you have the chance.” 

Your governess looks at you, saying nothing, but you can tell that she is silently agreeing with you. But the world will end if she ever admits it to your face. “So,” she says after sipping her tea. “Did you win?” 

Your lips twist to a sly grin. “What do you think?” 

One hour later, you find yourself returning to your quarters after a lazy afternoon. Your bedchamber is quiet, yet your mind is almost as lively as the rapid sound of your heartbeat as you reach for your dresser. Opening the top drawer, you find the set of keys gifted by your father. The magic keys cast silver and golden glow across the drawers and onto your face, the spell hums through the quiet space around you, as if asking why you haven’t reached for them today. 

Yet your gaze moves past them, landing on the small bundle that you had carried home with you from the fallen city of Arselon. 

You slowly reach for it, lifting the bundle in your hand with precise care—as if the thing will crumble into dust under your fingers. The bundle felt small when Gaia first handed it to you, enough for you to slip it under your cloak when you took it home. With gentle fingers, you pry open the velvet fabric covering it, revealing three small items bound together by a thick, white thread. 

The first item is a key; made of steel and mostly covered in rust, reminding you of the iron gate leading towards the forbidden part of the royal garden that you have yet to travel into. 

The second is an old folded map; with an inscription on the front cover written in one of the native languages you have been learning from Lady Laurel. Elven tongue. 

But what intrigues you the most is the third item. Weighing down on your palm is a small notebook. Small enough to fit in the small sling bag that you often carry with you when you are travelling or into the side pocket of your coat. The leather cover is tainted with ink stains and appears to be slightly worn out by age. The papers seem old and worn, with yellowing edges and some growing crisp and falling apart. Deep down, you have a feeling that you already know what this item is even without having to open it.

“I believe she also kept a journal with her…”

Nanny Abigail’s voice echoes through your head as you gently run the tips of your fingers over the leather covering, finding the small initial embossed into the leather, right at the bottom corner of the front cover. 

The inscription is made in a cursive letter, looking almost like a signed autograph marked into the leather coverings so it wouldn’t wear away by the passing of time, and the inscription reads the letter ‘M’. 

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